


Story of Sindri Lorebinder

by ConstipatedGenius



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adventure, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 07:32:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 40,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18441929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstipatedGenius/pseuds/ConstipatedGenius
Summary: The Chantry of Auri-El eluded destruction for millennia until The Betrayed came… or at least, that was the case in one time. In another, the Snow Elves not only survived, but were destined to emerge into the light of their homeland again one day. Explore the journal of one such Snow Elf as he journeys across Tamriel - for all the blessings and curses it has to offer.





	1. The Forgotten Vale & The Traveler

**Authors Note:** **After the overwhelmingly surprising success (and relative simplicity in terms of length) of my one fic that I published and completed – Memoirs of Moira O'deorain – I decided to delve deeper into the proverbial rabbit hole of fanfic writing so long as my inspiration lasts. I've always harbored a fascination with slight AU's and other tweaked versions of the Elder Scrolls lore and history on this site, and thus I decided to throw my hat into the ring. As with the other fanfic I wrote, I harbor no grand plans for this one beyond it being a fun exploration into the universe via the journal of one of its inhabitants, following canon but not so strictly so that I have to fact-check everything in the timeline. Not that I don't appreciate how in-depth the Elder Scrolls' lore is or anything! I love it, it's just that I'd have to absolutely destroy myself every sentence I write to make sure it doesn't conflict with the canon timeline. DISCLAIMER: This is me copying from FF.net, my other account of the same name, so be aware of duplicated, sometimes odd, author's notes.**

* * *

"The Forgotten Vale":

"The Forgotten Vale." Now that's certainly one thing you could call the valley if you were woefully unaware of the history here – which it appears the outside world is as of now. I'd always wondered what people recalled of this place outside of the Chantry itself, and thankfully the rumors surrounding this recent traveler to stumble across our home have answered that curiosity. Not that the Chantry is truly forgotten though.

There's been quite a few Nord adventurers descended from those old Atmoran souls that've craved an answer regarding if all Snow Elves are as wretched as The Betrayed; and thus, they come by the handful every so often to investigate the rumors of an ancient valley in between what they call Skyrim and High Rock nowadays. It's always struck me as both a mixed blessing and tragedy that the races of man have forgotten us, if I'm to be honest. Once the Nord leaders' vigor for hunting down our people faded into bickering and rivalry among themselves, we lost what was our last link to the outside world. At the same time though, it bought our people a place to at least attempt to rebuild – if not simply preserve – our society and way of life in peace, so long as we stayed here long enough for mankind to forget us. Lo and behold, it appears that time has long since arrived, if the traveler's name for this place is to be taken at face value.

Sadly though I'm not permitted by Vyrthur nor the Knight-Paladins to contact the traveler, despite however much we stand to learn if a historian and mage were to compare notes with them. I wonder if this is Vyrthur's old fear of the outside world rising to the surface again or because this adventurer so happens to legitimately have ill intent for us? I doubt it. There have been many people that've stumbled upon this place over the millennia, but it's likely that no one believes what they find judging by the lack of any raiding parties coming back for another costly round of wars with us. I imagine Vyrthur will expel her from the foot of the valley soon if he's left to his own judgement of the situation.

Ah! But I forgot to introduce myself, as great historians tend to do in their journals – under the (somewhat right) assumption that their old musings will fall into a library's hands after their passing for posterity – but I digress. My name is Sindri Lorebinder, a Snow Elf who has recently been blessed to have celebrated his 24th year of life on Nirn.

Some questions and curiosities' answers I suppose are in order though. My name and age upon beginning to log my thoughts to parchment are all well and good, but some background never fails to help a reader understand whose musings they're reading – something I wish ancient historians understood as well as I do I might add. Am I one of the original Snow Elves that resided in this place since the time of the Atmorans? No. I'm simply an avid study of what history we have and an apprentice mage, ever attempting to glean some knowledge of Tamriel in its present state from what little contact we have with the world outside of the Chantry. Not that I harbor delusions of grandeur or fame – far from it – it's just nice to dream that it could happen at the very least.

I should probably get used to writing down Adept instead though. Arch-Curate Vyrthur saw fit to allow me the title and all the independent studying privileges that entailed a few weeks ago. The ceremony was as filled with invocations of Auri-El, Syrabane, and Magnus as any before it, and I was assaulted with more congratulations than I feel was necessary – even as an apprentice to the Arch-Curate himself. It's a funny thing really, to be given the title in part simply due to having an instinct for magic whereas I've known some pilgrims here that spend their lives trying to attain the rank due to lack of magical prowess themselves. The only downside beyond the sheer volume of people present was the fact I was admittedly too wrapped up in my own thoughts to notice the  _exact_ reason I was being bestowed the title.

I've always understood the principals of runes and spellbooks to the point I've been asked to copy some myself for other apprentices, but if I had to guess my promotion more had to do with my creation of new alteration spells than my talent for destruction. Vyrthur's always had a soft spot for those talented enough to create new spells beyond spewing frost or flame from their fingertips in a slightly more powerful form, and thus me creating a spell that mitigated the risk of traveling the cliffside footpaths was a welcome new spell to be introduced to the Chantry's library. I'll spare myself the chore of writing down the entire cycle of study that went into creating the spell and write down its function quite simply – it's called "landing zone," and it prevents the caster from being harmed from a fall by slowing their descent if they meet the mark of the landing circle they cast. Considering how temperamental the glaciers and valley walls can be some summers, it's no wonder there was such a high number of requests for the corresponding spell tome to be reproduced, if I'm truthful.

The night grows late, and my thoughts linger back to the traveler. I haven't even met them, and I can't manage to distract myself from the possibilities contacting them would provide. Surely any traveler would be thankful to converse – or even make a companion of – an up-and-coming mage, yes? I can imagine it now: traveling Tamriel and bringing back a treasure trove of knowledge for the libraries here in the Chantry – new histories, new cultures, the list of goes on! Stendarr have mercy on me, I need to contact this traveler before they leave, Vyrthur's orders be damned! I've got to be smart about this though.

I know that the traveler's only been permitted to stay by the Wayshrine of Illumination but is left unsupervised on Sundas when the Prelates are all off to the Inner Sanctum for prayer. That's when I must make my move. Auri-El willing I'll be able to convince the traveler to let me accompany them before Vyrthur catches wind of me going against his wishes.

* * *

The Traveler:

As Auri-El would have it, I was blessed enough to meet the traveler without any Prelates or other prying eyes noticing my short journey. Her name is Glorel. Quite the beautiful name for an equally beautiful and wise beyond her years Altmer, in this Snow Elf's humble opinion. She hails from the Summerset Isles (evidently called Alinor within its own borders, which begs the question why they don't simply rename the maps?) and has quite the storied history – of which I was more than willing to listen to, but I get ahead of myself, as I often do.

Though I imagine she was fully expecting a Prelate to return through the wayshrine later in the day, I don't think she was prepared for me to appear over the hillside if the confused look on her face was any indicator. All things considered she was rather blasé about our meeting, something I later found out was more connected to her encounters of fellow nomads than anything. I introduced myself in as friendly a manner I could, and she seemed genuinely amused by my attempts to come across as unthreatening as possible. All it took was a gesture to her Altmer-designed armor, bow, sword, and shield that were in her tent nearby for me to get what made her so at ease. It was clear to me from then on that she was more than just an ordinary traveler, but I didn't wish to pry.

Our conversation was surprisingly mundane to begin with, speaking about how my people fared in such a secluded spot in Tamriel, but quickly evolved into something with more purpose. Glorel's curiosity concerning our history surprised me, but I was more than willing to trade notes with her in terms of the past. Not only did I learn more about the outside world in five minutes with Glorel than I had from centuries' worth of encounters with travelers logged in the history books, but I learned that I had a kindred spirit of curiosity and wonder of other cultures with her. The Chantry's histories of Tamriel only went so far as the day we were forced to hide here in the valley, but now I know so much more! From the rise of an Empire led by man, to the incursions of the Daedra upon the world at least twice over, to the fall of the Dwemer under highly debated circumstances, my craving to see this new world for myself only grew.

It must have been apparent on my face too, because Glorel kindly then inquired as to why I was so curious and excited to learn of other cultures and their histories. I told her the truth – that despite the Snow Elves keeping to form in terms of the original Aldmer faith, that doesn't mean that all of us are as blind to the value of learning about the world from other perspectives as our ancient kin such as Vyrthur are. I've spent my life studying the histories we have left from the prime of our time in Tamriel, and so it's clear that interacting with other peoples peacefully often ends in a new cultural identity stronger than the one that had preceded it in history. The fact that we've remained stubbornly isolationist for millennia is more of a testament to fact fear rules Vyrthur than it is that the world would see us destroyed - at least in my eyes - and so I sought to break that trend of isolation.

She surprised me by providing me with another gem of knowledge about the Altmer after I explained myself. I will admit I was curious as to why an Aldmer's descendant would engage in worldwide adventuring, let alone be accepting of the cultures of the places she went, but I'd held my tongue out of fear of prying. She told me that the some Altmer viewed themselves as the superior race, called themselves the "Thalmor," and thought themselves to be the best qualified to lead Tamriel – no matter what the other races had to say about it. As such they slowly asserted control of the Summerset Isles with as much underhanded tactics as a foreign empire seeking to play puppet master with their foe. Their reign began benign enough, but as they slowly gained more power the Isles' own king took a back seat in terms of authority, and then came the truly worrying actions of theirs. Any dissidents were exiled from the Isles without warning – only given a reason when they were already on the boat that would take them away from their homeland. Glorel found out she was counted as one of the dissidents due to associating with the other races in Alinor and training with them when she wasn't being trained to by an Altmer instructor. Why learning multiple combat skills and fighting styles from a myriad of races – thus making a more effective soldier – is considered dissent I will never understand, but I imagine that just goes to show desperate for control the Thalmor are.

Not even a few weeks after her arrival in a forested province known as Valenwood did she hear tell of the Thalmor now executing those very same people they would have simply exiled before, now under unfounded accusations of treason. With any hope of returning home diminished beyond repair, she then began the only plan of action she had available to her – look for a new place to call home. She never really did find one, with every land she traveled to either never really feeling like home or never accepting her fully into their society. Even with the friends she made as she traveled, the fact that she was an Altmer with a unique desire to learn about wherever she wound up next was enough for people to cast her out due to being suspected as either a spy or a fool.

When she was done explaining herself I couldn't help but feel excruciating guilt for even having considered her as a simple excuse to leave the Chantry. If my original goal was to simply bring back home some knowledge of the outside world, I could very well have completed my quest right then and there and returned home with no one the wiser. No, now I had a new mission in mind, and one Glorel was thankful to hear me propose.

Auri-El has blessed each one of us with our time on Nirn for a purpose, and to find that purpose is one the greatest accomplishments one can achieve. I believe I've found mine with Glorel. No longer was this just a minor excursion I wanted to evolve into a simple traveling tour of Tamriel, now it was a mission to help Glorel find some sense of home in her travels. Call me a bleeding heart or simply overly sympathetic, but for someone so kind and respectfully curious as her to endure so much and be cast away by Vyrthur like some gutter trash qualifies as beyond cruel. Although I don't know where to begin to help her establish a sense of home on her travels, I can at least give her my company to try and give her some companionship. After all, she seems less bothered with the nomadic lifestyle than by the lack of any like-minded individuals accompanying her on her travels. Who knows, maybe my companionship and shared respect of other cultures is exactly what she needs to find peace?

Judging by the barely contained relief she disguised underneath her smile once she accepted my proposal, I believe it is.

I've managed to sneak her back home without anyone noticing, with most attending prayer in the Inner Sanctum today. She was very grateful to be invited into my home, and I told her that it was the least I could do to provide her a good night's rest and reprieve from the cold before our journey began tomorrow. With my supplies packed and Vyrthur hopefully none the wiser of my plans to leave, I can't help but feel I'm making the right decision – to help Glorel in her journeys and to help her find peace in the companionship of a friend. Auri-El willing, we'll be out of Darkfall Cave by the time anyone even realizes we're gone.


	2. Escape, Solitude, and Civil War

Escape:

In my haste to try and evade Vyrthur's notice and get Glorel out of the cold, it appears I wasn't as level-headed in my plan as I thought I was. My assumption of the Prelates simply thinking Glorel had left once her camp had been packed up was… optimistic, to say the least. My hope was that the Prelates would see no urgency in alerting the Arch-Curate of their guest's departure, that we would then have enough time to simply pass them by before Vyrthur's wrath fell upon us.

That hope turned out to be woefully misplaced.

By the time we'd made it to the Wayshrine of Illumination to make our way into Darkfall Passage, I was greeted by an assortment of Knight-Paladins – Gelebor included, to my surprise – and staunchly loyal prelates to Vyrthur. The morning Prelate who tended the wayshrine evidently saw the supposed departure of Glorel as something rather urgent to alert the Arch-Curate of, and Vyrthur of course ordered the Knight-Paladins to prevent anyone from using the wayshrine until further notice. Though Glorel kept out of view during the encounter, Vyrthur knew I'd had some sort of correspondence with her, and he wanted me on lockdown until I confessed my involvement as to why the traveler had supposedly disappeared so suddenly.

Thus began an elaborate game of cat-and-mouse between myself and the Chantry at large, it seemed. No pilgrimages were allowed out of fear of myself taking advantage of the wayshrines' activation and leaving for Darkfall Passage in pursuit of the traveler. As far as Vyrthur was aware, she was long gone and my morning appearance at the Wayshrine of Illumination was only a loosely related incident showing my intent to leave the valley. The entire Chantry was visibly uncomfortable at the disruption of normal operations, and I don't know if it would've evolved into something more – perhaps questioning Vyrthur's actions– if we took longer to find a way out.

It took a few months' worth of hidden collaboration between myself and Glorel, (between Vyrthur's inspections of my home and my need to try and excuse my extra purchases of food and drink) but we managed to combine our maps and give ourselves a better idea of the land in relation to the Chantry's position. The valley is situated somewhat northwest of what is now called Haafingar and The Reach, and it took me a few more weeks of trying not to draw attention to my study of the mountain trails to figure out just the right route out of here on foot. It was almost unbearably slow, but by Mara's grace at least we took something positive out of the experience – more than the discovery of a way out, but back to the matter at hand first.

It was on the 23rd of Frostfall that we were able to make our escape, while the valley was fast asleep and Vyrthur's loyalists were maintaining watch of the wayshrines, Glorel and I were able to make the climb out of the valley where the mountain trails ended. It was uncomfortably high for my liking what with the added weight of supplies on our backs, but our grips and the stone held firm – thank the divines. I have no shame in expressing the fact that I was assisted in the final few footholds of the climb by Glorel. She'd made it up a few minutes before me (thanks to her rugged lifestyle and fitness through combat I imagine) and relieved me of some struggle by ridding me of the burden on my back.

The rest of the escape was almost serene, in my opinion. Although the mountains' stone mixed with glacier ice didn't make for the most secure of ground underfoot, and we encountered a few narrow paths along the way, we made great time and arrived at our cliffside destination into Skyrim in but a few hours. Lucky us my landing zone spell came in handy then, otherwise we would've had to attempt a descent of a sheer cliff without any rope or mountain gear for the trouble. For a member of a race so proud of their magical heritage, Glorel looked somewhat pale at the prospect of needing to jump off a cliff with naught but a spell to assure her safety, but after seeing how I took the plunge first she was assured of my spell's effectiveness.

She even went so far as to compliment me in my creation of such a spell! That is, after she slapped me for scaring her to the bone.

As Mara would have it, the sincerity of my efforts to find a method of escape and my profuse apologies for Vyrthur's actions earned me a unique spot in Glorel's heart. At first, I thought that was simply her expressing thanks for my companionship and assisting her while the valley was on lockdown, but once she began expressing concern for my safety if Vyrthur found out of my actions, I knew there was something more happening. In conversation, she always had such a casual air about her when recounting tales of bandits and monsters along her travels, but when she spoke about me it was clear she held my safety in a higher regard than I did.

It wasn't long until I came to terms with the fact that my entire feeling of urgency for our escape wasn't so much linked to fear of being found out by Vyrthur – he would never execute another Snow Elf – but more linked to fear of what would happen to Glorel if she was discovered. Vyrthur has now proven himself to be volatile where interaction with Tamriel is concerned, and I wouldn't put it past him to put Glorel to the sword out of fear of her "knowing too much" about us. Not only that, but after some prayer to Mara and some soul-searching I discovered another reason my heart was falling for her; that, whereas the last time Snow Elves had a misunderstanding or conflict with another race, it either ended in enslavement or genocide. Glorel instead expressed not only concern for my well-being, but forgiveness for the actions of the Arch-Curate. After all, there wasn't exactly anything I could have done to stop his lockdown from occurring in her eyes.

Our friendship has blossomed into something so much more than I could have ever dreamt it to be when I'd first learned of her presence in the valley, and I can't thank the divines enough for them blessing me with her presence in my life. We care for each other's well-being like no one before us has and share a unique craving to understand other peoples' cultures in a world of fools and men ruled by fear, and I wouldn't want it any other way.

Now that we've made a few days' progress towards getting on track of the proper roads in Haafingar, I've rationed enough downtime to begin writing again. It'll be rather refreshing to keep a proper log of events nowadays without fear of the Chantry – or more specifically Vyrthur – monitoring my every move. Our next stop is Solitude, evidently the capital of Skyrim and the best place we'll be able to find supplies for whatever travels we find ourselves on next. Glorel also assures me that the city is populated enough for my appearance to stay below the Nords' notice, if that was a concern. I don't particularly plan on walking up to the city guard nor the townsfolk and introduce myself as an emissary of the Snow Elves, but it's exciting to wonder if any of the common folk will recognize and react my race or not. Until then, Glorel and I have quite a few stories to tell on the road to pass the time. If Vyrthur's blind policy of isolation was good for one thing beyond surviving initially, it's making every foreign story so much newer.

* * *

Solitude:

If Solitude is any indication of the current state of Skyrim, then I can't even begin to imagine what the rest of Tamriel is like. Our trek through – or rather past - a small town known as Dragon Bridge was rather calm, birds singing their morning tune and the local Nords performing their duties for the day. I took this as a good omen, that our journey would be simple and unimpeded by any unfortunate circumstances along the way; and, for the rest of the journey towards Solitude itself, it was. It took a few more days, but we encountered no one except for a few other travelers and caravans along the way, leaving us at ease for the final stretch. Glorel and I were in the middle of discussing just how unobservant the Nords in Dragon Bridge seemed to be - judging by them not even noticing our passing - when something I could only describe as sheer  _force_  echoed from deep within the city.

The guardsmen that were standing at their post didn't even bother asking permission from their superior officers before locking the gate behind us. We were trapped in the city, without the faintest idea of what exactly was going on to cause such a sudden lockdown of the capitol. For the first few dozen minutes the crowds simply expressed just as much confusion as myself and Glorel (again, no Nords noticing my race, though I imagine the thunderous sound was more prominent in their minds at that moment) until what I could only describe as a madman caked in blood ran by in a whir. I assumed that the perpetrator was a criminal, and Glorel urged me to let the proper authorities stop him. I didn't have any intent of getting in the way, and so I didn't involve myself.

It was when the guards and Empire soldiers were tossed back like ragdolls into the crowd with the same force we heard prior that I realized that the thunderous sound came from the Nord before us. I could only begin to guess where he gained such power – be it Nord magic or intervention of the Daedra – but before I could even register Glorel urging me back, he vanished in an unnatural sprint and left only a man who'd assisted his escape in his wake. Dozens of soldiers were sent in pursuit of the criminal, but none returned with results, as we later found out.

With the man gone, his accomplice arrested by the city guard, and Solitude out of lockdown, we elected to stock up on supplies and extend our stay in the city to find out exactly what just happened. After renting a room in a local inn (and being mistaken as an odd-looking Dunmer by the innkeeper,) I've attained enough time to log recent events and catch some shuteye before Glorel returns. Divines willing, whatever happened here today won't impede our journey.

* * *

Civil War:

A new day dawns, and before Glorel rises and we need to continue on the road I figured now is a good a time as any to write. We've been in Solitude a solid week and I've learned that Vyrthur was right about one thing – the Nords are a surprisingly violent sort; though, not violent towards other races at present, as Vyrthur would have me believe. The Nords are in the midst of a civil war, their piety towards their man-god Talos leading them to revolt against the Empire in the wake of being told by their Emperor to cease worship of him. The Thalmor of course had their part to play in the events leading up to this, being the supremacists that they are.

Even if Talos is a figment of the Nords' imagination, and the races of man have been worshipping a nonexistent divine for centuries, what does it matter to the Thalmor? I know for a fact that Y'ffre isn't even worshipped by man, but that doesn't invalidate the existence of such a divine being. We have proof in Y'ffre's blessings and miracles even so far back as when the Snow Elves still lived free in Skyrim, and so we know to worship him – even when he doesn't answer our prayers. To assume that there are no such instances of proof of Talos' existence borders on idiocy, ignoring the fact that no Mer (so far as I'm aware) has even prayed at a shrine of Talos to verify his divinity or not. Thus, it logically follows that the Thalmor simply seek to antagonize the Nords, leveraging their position of strength just to tear at the foundations of the Empire. War is a bloody and costly thing that my people know all too well, and so this is something I can only assume the Thalmor are doing in preparation to topple the Empire once and for all.

Though I sympathize with the plight of piety the Nords worshipping Talos are enduring, I can't say I approve of their methods. The man who ran out of Solitude we found out was none other than Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm. In what I assume was a display of power meant to shake the confidence of the Imperial Legion, Ulfric challenged the High King to a duel. This in of itself wouldn't be cause for my disapproval, but the manner in which Ulfric won the duel is what earned him my disdain.

Thanks to some drunken Nords too occupied drinking to notice my prying, I learned what exactly the wave of force was that we heard when we arrived. The Thu'um, or the Voice. An ancient power taught to the ancient Nords by an ancient Dragon under orders from the divines, the Nords have come into a unique understanding of one of the most powerful magics I have ever born witness to. Ulfric was a disciple of the masters of the Voice – the Greybeards – and subsequently abandoned their pacifist teachings as soon as the Thalmor invaded. According to those drinkers, after the Great War he was left with a position as Jarl, a disposition against the treaty that outlawed Talos worship, and a desire to see Skyrim free of the Empire.

Again, I sympathize with the man. I've never been part of a war, but I can only imagine the horrors he had to endure just to watch his foe destroy all he held dear. I'd note how similar the situation is to what my people had to endure, but now is not that time. I understand needing to prove his strength, to show that this civil war is not simply a political power play, but the fact he would unleash a power of such divine proportion against a man who'd never even stood on the battlefield goes beyond necessary force. The Jarl's funeral was closed-casket, and it didn't take a genius to figure out exactly why.

My heart goes out to the Nords, but neither I nor Glorel have any intent of involving ourselves in their war if we can help it. Whatever happens is between the Stormcloaks and the Empire, and so long as the victor doesn't engage in a sudden hunt of all Mer in Skyrim we'll leave them be.

When we hit the road again, our next destination will be Winterhold. Glorel was gracious enough to let me decide our next destination, so long as we'd likely arrive in time to take shelter from the worst of the oncoming winter. If Glorel's prior knowledge is anything to go by, even with the city itself is in ruin I'll be able to get accepted into the College there with my aptitude for magic. It'll be a good learning opportunity, for me to see how magic has progressed in recent years. Not that Glorel doesn't know  _anything_  about magic, but her knowledge seems only to go so far as basic alchemy and some apprentice level restoration – though she more than makes up for it in her martial combat prowess, that's for sure.

If we're lucky I'll be able to ingratiate myself in the College through the fact I'll be the first Snow Elf anyone's seen in millennia. I know for sure that any mage worth their weight in salt would jump at the chance to learn some ancient lore that's been lost in time, so an in-depth historical exchange alone should occupy the winter and earn me some respect – at least in the walls of the College. Or at least, that's my hope.

* * *

**Author's Note:** **I don't particularly feel like I'm qualified to write a lengthy entry detailing Sindri falling in love with Glorel without running the risk of it being too cheesy/bordering on off-putting, so I just decided to let his entry concerning their relationship be reflective of how they feel about one another. That feeling being that they feel love for each other, yes, and immensely care about one another, but neither of them are the kind to write at great length about the metaphorical butterflies in their stomachs. Long story short, it's a kind of "this is what it is" sort of relationship.**


	3. Winterhold, The College, & Saarthal

Winterhold:

As the days and weeks' passage went by in a blur and we finally arrive at our destination, so too do I finally have the time needed to write once again. Our trip to Winterhold wasn't burdened by bandits, (although we did have a near-encounter with some suspicious looking hunters) but unfortunately was slowed by the fast-encroaching winter. In my haste to make good time, I'd neglected to account just how impactful the cold could be to the other races of Tamriel nowadays. After all, any Snow Elf can trudge through snowstorms in only the thinnest of coats unimpeded, but the only other race in Tamriel nowadays that can even compete with such resistance to the cold is the Nords. As such, we were forced to make quite a few unexpected stops to either hunker down against an incoming snowstorm or acquire a thicker coat for Glorel. Such detours of course slowed down our progress, and so we've only barely made it to Winterhold's inn in time to avoid the first blizzard of the winter.

That isn't to say that our journey was a failure, however. Although we certainly didn't make impeccable timing - and the townsfolk seemed all too spiteful when they found out our reason for coming here – the College itself is still alive and well, judging by the mages coming and going at all hours. We've rented a room for the winter and I plan on making my presence known to the college as soon as I'm sure Glorel hasn't come down with any sickness from the weather. Besides, although I have no problem with the snow and the cold, that doesn't mean that the lack of visibility will help me when I traverse the half-destroyed bridge the College has. I'm eager to spend my winter exchanging notes at the college, yes, but that hardly means I want to be known the fool whose first appearance involved falling off a cliff.

It surprises me how so much and so little could change in Skyrim over the millennia, now that I think about it. No matter who controls the land, the occupants always need fear the winter's woes in the end. Even in the height of our time here, society would seem to grind to a halt whenever a blizzard was concerned – and so too do the Nords seem to set aside whatever occupies most of their time during such weather. From an atmosphere of melancholy and disdain for every traveler only being there for the college to concern for everyone's well-being against the cold, I can't help but feel that the Nords – at least here – have some sort of good will. It'd give me hope that the rest of Skyrim won't be as violent as it sounds, but the incident in Solitude convinced me otherwise.

* * *

The College:

It's been only a few weeks after my last entry, and so much more has transpired that time I had anticipated would happen.

After being assured by Glorel that she wasn't coming down with anything – and giving her a potion for good measure – I made my way through the snow during a lull in the storm. I fully expected an entry exam and a few words of warning before even being considered for acceptance into the place, but instead I was almost dragged inside. I knew that if anywhere in Skyrim would recognize my ancestry it'd be the college, but still, I didn't anticipate such excitement – especially from such an otherwise stern and powerful-looking duo of mages guarding the bridge. Not that I'm complaining though. In their haste to invite me into the college I was given a set of the mages robes (while inferior to my own, it's a kind gesture nonetheless), a room to practice magic freely in, and a bed in case I decide to forgo traveling back to the inn.

The college's master of Destruction, Faralda, and Master Wizard Mirabelle Ervine then gave me a quick but formal tour of the grounds before I was introduced to two of their most dedicated historians – librarian Urag gro-Shrub and the college's master of Alteration, Tolfdir. I can't imagine how the pair seemed to have so many well-formulated questions lined up about Snow Elf culture and magic, but I was thankful to see that their curiosities laid more in the arcane nature of our society and less about how exactly it still existed. Not that they weren't curious, it's just that when I explained the apprehension of my people at large about contacting the outside world, they were quickly dissuaded from continuing down that line of questioning. They still had plenty of questions though, and so for the next three days we worked out a fitting long-term duty for me here: to catalogue as much of the fundamental culture and magic of my people as I can in exchange for me having access to their more private histories and spell tomes.

If push comes to shove though, I'm more than willing to divulge information concerning the history of my people so long as I don't need to tell where we wound up. I don't think anyone in the college would have ill-intent for our people or have any plans to spark an invasion, it's just that I'd rather Vyrthur have some more time to cool off before I – or anyone else - show up at the Chantry.

The only thing that troubles me about the college is the not-so-subtle presence of a Thalmor agent here. The man's name is Ancano, and he carries himself with more pomp and self-righteousness than Vyrthur even on his worst days, and I can't help but feel he's much more than a simple "advisor" to the Arch-Mage. I draw this assumption from the fact that the moment I was studying on my own time – without anyone else nearby – he saw it fit to intrude on my thoughts and barrage me with questions. Who I am, what I know about the college, the list went on, getting more and more close to home as the interrogation continued. I'm sure he was about to outright ask for me to locate my home on a map when the Master Wizard persuaded him to leave me be. If I didn't believe Glorel's testimony about how power-hungry and controlling the Thalmor were before, I certainly did now. Glorel has unsurprisingly advised me to keep my distance whenever possible, clearly as suspicious of his inquiries' intent as I am.

In between me writing everything I've committed to memory about back home into the college's books, my own independent study, and decompressing with Glorel in the evenings, I'm afraid I had to neglect my journal for a time. The only reason I have time to write independent of my time in the college today is due to my being invited on a short expedition of sorts, though I'm thankful for the change of pace. I feel as though I digest knowledge better when on the move, rather than stuck in a library reading and re-reading the same text for clarity, and so the trip should do me good.

I get the feeling Tolfdir's invitation of me to Saarthal also has a bit more to do with my being a Snow Elf than he lets on, if I'm honest. His assumption that I know more than anyone else in the college what happened on the Night of Tears is a reasonable one, and so if anyone would be best qualified to help excavate the site and make sense of whatever they discover there, it'd be me.

I'll be bringing Glorel with me. Saarthal isn't as far from Winterhold as it is potentially dangerous, and I can tell Glorel would appreciate the chance to stretch her legs and make sure I don't get myself killed. Besides, I'm not entirely sure if I'm comfortable treading one of the most controversial sites in Snow Elf history alongside the place's descendants without someone I can trust present. The college's Nord apprentice Onmund seems as unnerved by the prospect of disturbing the site as I am, and I wouldn't put it past him to become somewhat irrational when he sees the destruction. He doesn't mind my being a Snow Elf – much like the rest of the college – but where Saarthal is concerned I don't think one can be too cautious trying to account for the actions of one's peers.

In accordance with Tolfdir's memory of the storms of the winter come and go, the snowfall seems to be giving way to more favorable weather now. It seems like our trip to Saarthal begins now, then.

* * *

Saarthal:

It'd appear my apprehension concerning Saarthal was justified, in the end. What began as a simple trip into history has perhaps turned into an excavation that discovered the most important magical artifact of the Era – at least in my eyes, but I get ahead of myself.

The trip to Saarthal was uninterrupted by wildlife nor the weather, and so those invited from the college made as quick a hike towards the site as Glorel and I did, with plenty of daylight to spare. After a redundant warning from Tolfdir concerning the unknown nature and potential dangers of the ruins, the trip down into the city began. Most of the mages were given the simple task of recovering enchanted rings and the like from wherever they could find, and Onmund was specifically given a section of the ruins as far away from me and Glorel as Tolfdir could manage without drawing attention. Not that it particularly mattered, judging by how Onmund was as quiet as a mouse the second we set foot in the ruins.

Tolfdir, Glorel, and I then proceeded to venture deeper into the less-explored regions of the city than was mapped, with the Alteration master being separated from us when I picked up an amulet, causing a gate to fall behind us. To a less observant mage and disciple of enchantments, the trap might've been cause for concern, but the amulet was more of a test of knowledge than something made to doom any would-be pilferers. A nearby wall caved in the moment I hit it with even a paltry amount of flames thanks to the amulet's enchantment, and so began the exploration of crypts the Atmorans would've rather been left alone.

We were stopped at a seemingly dead end before being attacked by Draugr. Although we made short work of the undead between the three of us, they were still formidable in close quarters – Glorel even had to bail me out of getting cornered by one of the brutes wielding a greatsword. I thought that'd be the worst of it; that all we'd meet along the way would just be more undead souls that we'd simply put at ease before detailing the city's maps further, but I was sorely mistaken. I'd hardly finished dispelling the flame bolt from my hand when the entire room fell to a standstill.

I know not how, but time itself ceased to exist. Before I could even begin to guess what was happening, a member of the Psijic Order appeared in front of me. Quaranir warned me of an imminent chain of events that would come to pass - never giving specifics beyond his name – and vanished just as soon as he came. Tolfdir and Glorel were blind to the event, suspended in time while I was contacted by the man. We discussed at length the implications of Psijics contacting me (the fact they chose to contact a Snow Elf investigating Saarthal and not the master mage in the room in of itself was suspect) and continued deeper still.

Even Glorel could feel the power that lay at the bottom of the city, and it didn't take an avid study of history like me to know what was coming, no matter how much I wished I was imagining it. Three Draugr brothers, too many close calls, and just as many potions later, we were left alone with nothing but the Eye of Magnus' divine glow as company at the bottom of Saarthal.

Tolfdir was ecstatic to find such a powerful artifact here, but I knew better - as did the Psijics.

The Night of Tears was never executed out of some defense of our land and resources, nor some sort of 'coveting' of the Eye as the Nords' account of the incident had led so many to believe – Tolfdir included, until I educated him. No, the Eye of Magnus was first discovered by the Aldmer who would become my race's forefathers at the peak of the Throat of the World within weeks of arriving in Skyrim. The same magical draw that led us to it today drew the Aldmer to the Eye, but they knew better than to meddle with the gods' tools. They buried it in the deepest caverns they knew of and made it their duty to stay in Skyrim to make sure no one would ever unearth it, so that Magnus' power to unmake the world would stay out of mortal hands.

When the Atmorans' mages found it though, they lacked the same wisdom and restraint the Aldmer's (now turned Snow Elves') leaders had, and so they began building Saarthal on top of the Eye. My ancestors watched and waited, hoped that the Atmorans wouldn't try and begin tapping into its power, but as soon as dozens of Atmorans suddenly possessed power far beyond their lifespan's ability to gain, they chose to act swiftly. In a mix of fear for the very existence of Mundus and fear for their own lives, they razed the city to the ground.  _That_  was the Night of Tears' purpose,  _that_ was why Saarthal fell, and  _that_  was the single event that damned my people to the confines of Chantry to this very day.

If the ancient account of the incident wasn't convincing enough, my verification of the Eye's pedestal being of ancient Snow Elf design convinced Tolfdir that I was telling the truth. Nonetheless, Savos Aren needed to be informed of the discovery to decide what the college's next course of action would be, and we made our way back to Winterhold's inn just in time for nightfall. I plan on informing Arch-Mage Aren as soon as me and Glorel get some rest, and more importantly I plan on advising him to keep an eye on Ancano at all times if they choose to bring the Eye onto the premises. As much as I would prefer it stay buried, I know that it's all too likely that the college will want to study it beyond what I was able to tell them. At least with me being the first to inform the Arch-Mage, he'll be getting the most realistic analysis of the situation. Not that I don't trust Tolfdir to do the right thing, but anyone with half a brain knows absolute power – especially of the arcane variety – corrupts absolutely.

* * *

**Authors Note:** **So fans of the Elder Scrolls, didja notice the nod to the Gauldursons? I chose to omit the existence of The Gauldur Amulet, instead only making a sorta reference to the three sons. Why? Because that plot thread is something I don't feel Sindri would be the one to pursue. Besides, to even find out about that plot thread he'd have to have looted their corpses, and Sindri doesn't seem like that kind of guy to me. Besides, I think the Eye of Magnus is more important to him at the moment.**


	4. Good Intentions & Savos' Secret

Good Intentions:

As is often the case concerning immensely powerful artifacts, despite whatever warnings the organization that discovers them receives, the object will find its way into their facilities. The first few days after the expedition to Saarthal began rather quietly, with Ancano keeping his nose down, and so I took the opportunity to use my spare time to learn more about the Thalmor. While most of what I knew from Glorel about them was verified by the texts the library had, I did learn something more about the organization's origin, as well as what likely raised their egos so greatly to begin with. Glorel had already informed me of Mehrunes Dagon's appearance during the Oblivion Crisis, and that the Thalmor grew in political strength after the defense of the Summerset Isles, but she never told me specifics - not that I blame her. It's very likely that in the aftermath of the Daedric Prince of destruction's short-lived invasion, the still-young Thalmor's ego-boosting claims of them being the ones that closed the Oblivion Gates – not Emperor Martin Septim's sacrifice – was highly disputed by the other factions that assisted in the defense. So of course, as soon as the Thalmor had the power to do so, they exiled, discredited, or assassinated dissenters and struck every contradictory claim from all accounts of the incident they could find, at least in the Isles.

While I busied myself making sure I was up to date on the history of the Thalmor, Tolfdir and Savos were fast at work preparing a conjuration ritual to transport both themselves and the Eye of Magnus back to the college. About a week after my return from Saarthal, as I was making the walk from the inn to the college grounds, the two masters and their accompanying artifact arrived in the Hall of the Elements. The Eye is still there for all to see between and during lectures, with no other place here capable of housing the orb. It's somewhat disappointing that the Eye was brought back here despite my warnings, but I suppose the yearning for arcane knowledge will trump reason some days. At least it's under subtle constant observation to keep it out of Ancano's hands, rather than it being far away in Saarthal. If he got his hands on the Eye there, there'd be no way for anyone to intervene in time if he figured out how to access even a fraction of its power. Savos' caution mixed with an eagerness to learn is something of a mixed blessing in the end, it seems.

Though I fully expected to be pulled from my own readings to assist in studying the Eye, the very next day after the orb's arrival is when my earlier apprehension about the Eye being brought back bore fruit.

Tolfdir and I were discussing the fact that none of the markings adorning the orb itself were of any well-catalogued origin, both of us ending up with the hypothesis that they were Aedric in origin, what with the Eye being of divine origin. Ancano then interrupted with all the grace of a mammoth, demanding that I accompany him to the Arch-Mage's quarters to "deal with" someone claiming to be a Psijic monk asking for me by name. What's more, he wanted me to find out exactly why the Psijic was here and then get him to leave as soon as possible. He – and the Thalmor at large - obviously fear the Psijic Order, and with good reason too. I've read reports that the Psijics have made their home island seemingly disappear and reappear dozens of times through the eras, obviously knowing more about magic within their order than most of the Thalmor's agents could even begin to fathom.

Not a minute after I entered the Arch-Mages quarters, Quaranir ceased the flow of time just as he did back in Saarthal. He told me what I already knew; that, the longer the Eye stays here, the more dangerous the situation becomes. He was also as unsure as I was with how to proceed – said "the future is clouded" – and he simply advised me to seek out the "Augur of Dunlain," before he excused himself from the premises. Thus continued the chain of events I set in motion back in Saarthal, it seemed.

Upon my inquiries into what the Augur of Dunlain even is, let alone where it was located, most of the college was tight-lipped about the whole matter. Only Tolfdir was willing to inform me the Augur was not an  _it_ , but a  _he_. Where once the Augur was a talented apprentice not unlike myself, his eagerness to learn led him to becoming something else, something Tolfdir had no interest in trying to describe to me due to how esoteric it was. He told me that I'd have to traverse the lower levels of the midden to find the Augur, and so my descent into the dark began, my only companion my candlelight – and the disembodied voice of the Augur trying to dissuade me from seeking him.

As I reached the bottom of the midden, I quickly found out exactly why the Augur was such a closely guarded secret. The isolated cistern I tracked his voice to was clearly the site of a ritual either gone horribly wrong, or horribly right. Old bloodstains and bones adorned the walls and floors, the thick liquid in the cistern's basin itself glowing a bright blue before rising and coalescing into something I can only liken to a living constellation. The Augur had ended up destroying himself, turning into an ethereal prophet in the process, yes, but destroyed all the same. If word got out that an apprentice of the College ended up destroying himself, this place would likely be destroyed. If not by the Nords, then by any of the other people in Tamriel with a bad opinion of the college.

The Augur was slow to trust but quick to test my resolve, always trying to undermine my determination by giving me vague notions of a fight ahead that would put to the test everything I knew of the arcane in combat. When I convinced him that I was still resolute in my inquiry despite his warnings, he confirmed my fears about bringing the Eye back to the college. He told me that Ancano had come before me, demanding the Augur tell him how to access the Eye's power, but was sent on his way due to his clear lust for power, and that he knew that which I was seeking. He said; "You know of that which you seek in legend. The very object your people crafted to seal away Magnus' eye, you must now find if you are to escape disaster."

With that in mind, I knew what I needed to find. An old tale back home says "If you are to see through Magnus' eye without being blinded, you require his staff." The only problem is, I have no clue where to find the Staff of Magnus. I've informed Arch-Mage Aren that we need to find it, and that Ancano did indeed have plans to try and capture the power of the Eye. He skirted around the issue of finding the staff but advised me to continue avoiding a confrontation with Ancano. The last thing the college needs is the death of an agent seemingly without provocation being noticed by the Thalmor – lest we invite their order to come crashing down on us. If Ancano makes the first move, odds are it's under orders from his superiors, and thus we won't be targeted for retribution by the Thalmor for thwarting the plan they explicitly put in place.

It's advice I already know to follow, and I get the feeling Savos knows more about the staff's location than he lets on. It's a big if, but if Savos really does know its location then I need to pry it out of him – maybe with a reminder of what it means for someone to be able to unmake the world. I plan on pursuing the issue tomorrow, but for now I need to rest. Though the descent through the midden didn't have any dangers other than some frostbite spiders and ice wraiths to tire me out, I get the feeling that retrieving the staff is going to be a lot more difficult than simply fetching it from some antique owner's shop.

* * *

Savos' Secret:

Within days of keeping on Savos' toes about the Eye's potential for destruction, and divulging the origin and purpose of the staff, I could see that Savos was withholding information from me for sure. As I later found out, it was both to protect himself to protect himself – and me – in some way, but all in due time. Whenever I would bring up details about the staff, he'd always respond not as if this was the first time he was hearing it, but rather as if he'd rehearsed his answers in preparation for the day someone would come to him asking questions about the artifact. I'll give Savos this though; that, if not for the lump in his throat that he almost completely hid underneath his calm and wise demeanor, I wouldn't have even been suspicious enough of his blindness of its location to inquire further.

But the lump was there, and I eventually broke down whatever walls he'd built up over the centuries and earned a private audience with him. He didn't seem as concerned about divulging his past itself as he was what I would think of him in the end, so I reassured him of the fact I only wanted to help. That, and I also reminded him that no matter what he did so long ago, my ancestors did worse on the Night of Tears – there's certainly enough back in the Chantry's library to suggest as much.

He began by inquiring into how much I knew about the Dragon Cult from millennia ago. I told him that thanks to the library here I knew a great deal more than even the rest of the mages here it seemed, at least at the most basic level. That the ancient Nords' dragon cult was born out of both fear and reverence of the dragons when they made their way from Akavir to Tamriel, that for every man that fought (and was enslaved by) the dragons, there were just as many who bowed to their will, and that those cultists tried to emulate the behaviors or gain the favor of their new overlords at every turn. Even this very general understanding of the Dragon Cult's inner workings was enough to save Savos time, but as I would later find out, there was so much more to the dragon cult – and specifically their capital – than I'd ever known.

Labyrinthian was more than just the capital of the ancient cult, Savos told me. It was the site where the dragons would bestow upon their chosen priests masks that defied the laws of nature, as well as the site that any magical artifacts the cult found would be brought and later given to those deemed worthy. It is with this knowledge that a younger Savos and his colleagues were inevitably drawn to that place. They assumed they would find something of great importance there, something to put their names into the history books of great mages. To their credit, they were all too terribly right.

His confession proper truly began when he told me what happened within the ruins itself, though.

The band of mages went into Labyrinthian ready for some resistance, yes, but there was more there than they could've ever been prepared for. Within the first hour of entering the place, they discovered not only the first living dragon to be spotted in centuries, but an entire horde of Draugr protecting it. They considered themselves lucky to defeat the beast once, but both the dragon and its followers were raised time and again by something deep within the city's catacombs. Before they escaped the underground chamber, one of their number was torn apart and they were faced with the realization that they either had to keep moving forward or be killed by the horde behind them.

The deeper they went, the more people they lost along the way, and the more that same unknown entity that raised the dead mocked them in an ancient tongue. Only Savos could decipher what the being was saying, and he soon figured out exactly they were up against. The only Dragon Priest to refuse slumber like his fellow cult leaders – Morokei – was the man who was torturing them in the depths, and all for his own gain. He would rob the mages of their magicka time and again to feed his own power, using their own strength to make most of the Draugr they encountered nigh-unkillable, forcing them deeper still.

Savos took plenty of time to describe Morokei with me, and with good reason too, considering I'd have to face him to get the staff. As was the case with most of the magical artifacts the cult came across, they went to the Dragon Priests. The Staff of Magnus' true potential was overlooked by the dragons, and so it was given to Morokei, his masters thinking it only a particularly powerful staff that'd been fought over by mortals for generations – a sort of war-prize from the long-gone Snow Elves.

Morokei not only refused slumber, but instead used the staff to grow in strength by feeding off whatever unfortunate mages he lured in, even as his body withered and rotted away. Why? Because much like many of his fellow cultists, he possessed the same lust for dominance and sheer power that the dragons did. In the society of the Dragon Cult, (as well as the dragons themselves) power was the same as divine law, and so he desired the power to make his word absolute. In my eyes, with such a culture of nonstop rivalry and lust for power, it's no wonder they all fell to the ancient Nords' revolts in the end, but I digress.

By the time the last three of them figured out the fact Morokei was using their own power against them, and they made it to his chamber, they were completely outmatched by his magic's sheer strength. As with most of the terrible decisions made in the face of annihilation, Savos let fear of what would happen control him, and he sacrificed his closest friends. He turned them into thralls to contain Morokei with every fiber of their eternal beings and sealed the place off by removing the Torc of Labyrinthian from the ancient catacombs' doors.

His tale took late into the night to finish, but it gripped me all the same, now that I understood Savos' reasoning for keeping the staff's location secret. If anyone were to find out where it was, or even find out that Labyrinthian possessed immense power deep inside, the odds were that either they would meet the same grizzly fate his companions had or end up releasing Morokei – and divines only know what he would do to Tamriel then.

I then decided to honor his desire to keep the past buried, at least somewhat. I won't tell anyone about what happened in Labyrinthian beyond Glorel - who Savos very well knows I wouldn't hide anything from, much like he didn't hide the happenings of Labyrinthian from Mirabelle - but I still need to go there. After all, if I don't heed Quaranir and the Augur's warnings, we stand much more to lose than me and Glorel's lives. That having been said, Savos has chosen to accompany us on the journey to try and mitigate the risk. He told us he seeks to right the wrongs of his past, even if that means facing the same man that nearly tore his body apart. If the determined look on his face wasn't enough proof of his sincerity, then him giving us the torc was all we needed to know he was telling us the truth.

We set out tomorrow morning, and gods-willing Ancano won't try anything in the meantime. If we move quickly and all goes well, we should return with the leverage we need to mitigate him as a threat to Mundus in just a few days' time.

* * *

**Authors Note:** **You may be wondering why Sindri would be writing down Savos' secrets if he wants to keep them secret – seeing as Sindri thinks his journal may be recorded for posterity, right? The thing is, it's likely that by the time Sindri dies and the journal falls into a library's hands, Savos will probably be dead too, magical longevity or not, and so by the time the world learns of what went down in Labyrinthian both Savos and Sindri will both not really have to face the backlash. Because, ya know… they're dead.**


	5. Labyrinthian & The Eye of Magnus

Labyrinthian:

Of course, the divines always find a new way to test the resolve of their most loyal, even in the most urgent of times. Despite the grim mission that the three of us were about to embark on, the morning held less of an atmosphere of dread than it did a steely determination. It couldn't have been less than ten minutes after the three of us left for Labyrinthian when we were called back to the college by an out-of-breath Omnund. Considering Onmund was usually extremely well-composed – even in Saarthal – we knew the moment we'd dreaded would occur had finally come to pass. By the time we arrived at the Hall of the Elements, Ancano was already trying to tap into the Eye. If the Augur's words weren't to be taken seriously before, now we had proof of the Thalmor's lust for unfathomable power.

Faralda was on observation duty to make sure the he didn't try anything, but from what we saw Ancano didn't exactly challenge her to an honorable duel before he accessed the eye. Her robes bore the telltale signs of shock and fire bombarding her, but we couldn't tell how bad the wounds were before Ancano summoned – intentionally or not – a series of wraith-like magic anomalies. They were quick and without end it seemed, and we had to retreat before they overwhelmed us. Last I saw Faralda, she was just outside of the magical field he'd erected to isolate himself from everyone. She was in pain, but hanging on all the same.

As much as Glorel and I wanted to stay and help, we knew that without the Staff of Magnus we stood no chance of stopping Ancano, not between the anomalies, the sheer power he'd likely gained, and the impassable field raised in his defense. We settled on having Savos stay behind and make sure everyone stayed safe from the anomalies, and to prevent anyone from engaging Ancano. No matter how much we wanted to make him pay for what he's done, we couldn't even get close to him without the means to stop him.

With there being no telling what Ancano's going to do after he figures out how to access the Eye's true potential, Glorel and I made our way as quickly to Labyrinthian as we could. What would've taken any sane travelers two weeks' worth of a march in winter, we made in three days. If not for Restoration's potential to reinvigorate its targets as well as mend wounds, we would've collapsed from exhaustion the moment we ascended the steps to the city. Thankfully though that wasn't the case, and so we continued onwards – without a second thought as to what we were walking into.

Despite Savos telling me everything about the Draugr that resided here and of Morokei's potential, nothing could prepare you for the task of fighting off hordes of the undead when your magicka is leeched out of you time and again. Where Restoration's holy flames would normally work wonders to repel the undead, Morokei reduced me to hoping normal fire and lightning bolts would be enough. It was like being a novice all over again, with every spell becoming a labor and every successful attack being a major victory.

We were simply fighting through the Draugr for what felt like hours; Glorel covering my back when I needed to recover my strength and me her wherever Draugr archers and mages were concerned. I would've been inclined to compliment her if not for the fact Morokei left me breathless so often.

Despite the constant fighting and sapping of my strength though, the one thing that did manage to unnerve us was when Morokei's taunts and distant attacks stopped. We realized that either he'd come to understand his attacks wouldn't stop us – doubtful, considering it didn't stop Savos so long ago – or he was simply mentally preparing himself to bring down all the strength he'd gained down upon us. We took the moment to catch our breath, knowing that we'd meet Morokei and what remained of Savos' friends in the next chamber. It wasn't much of a grand stage for the battle that was about to unfold, but the sight of two once vibrant souls made into thralls endlessly toiling to keep Morokei sealed was enough to make anyone's blood run cold.

After making sure that we were as ready as we could ever be, we released both the thralls from their centuries-long torment, and the priest from his prison. If Morokei using the Staff's power from afar left me breathless and in need of Glorel to bail me out of danger, then feeling its effect directly might as well have pulled my lungs from my body. If Glorel didn't shield rush him as quickly as she did, I've no doubt that I wouldn't have been able to cast another spell during the fight, let alone one that'd kill the priest.

Despite however great our defense was during the fight after that initial attack, Morokei seemed like he would either outlast us or simply blow us away outright once he got warmed up; luckily, he never got the chance. Glorel managed to push him off the platform they were fighting on, giving me a clear shot to send a stream of lightning into the bastard's heart. No matter whatever magic he was using from the staff to sustain himself, between the lightning and Glorel diving down to drive her sword through his chest, his ancient body disintegrated before he hit the ground, leaving us with just his mask and the staff of legend.

I'm not one to loot an ancient tomb by any means, but I figured I'd keep the mask. Not to wear it – what with it being the mask of the same ancient people that nearly wiped out my race – but simply to have it as a reminder of the battle. Only later did I find out that even having the mask on my person was enough for its magicka-regenerating enchantment to work – which I imagine will come in handy in the future. As I retrieved the staff and the mask from the stream Morokei's ashes landed in, Glorel took the time to tell me that there's likely no one that would've had the heart nor the endurance to survive Labyrinthian this time around other than us. Despite whatever injuries either of us had received along the way, I couldn't help but reciprocate the feeling.

The only thing that interrupted our return home was Estormo – evidently a lackey of Ancano – trying to stop us and take the staff. How in the name of the divines he expected to do that with it being in our hands, I will never know. What I did know was that his monologuing gave me the time to familiarize myself with its potential; after all, there really wasn't any way to get him to leave us be besides his death. At the very least I learned how astoundingly powerful the staff was, judging by how quickly Estormo turned to ash. I can't help but feel that witnessing, let alone being the one to wield, the Staff of Magnus is like being part of legends yet to be written. I think that, given time and combat, I'll come to understand the staff's potential as more than just something that can dissipate the Eye's influence.

It's been two days since we left Labyrinthian, and I pray that once we cross the next set of hills we won't be greeted by ruin where Winterhold used to be. I don't know why or how I've turned from a scholar, to an adventurer, to someone linked to the fate of Tamriel via possessing the Staff of Magnus, but I pray that once all of this is over, the city is still in one piece. No matter what the rest of Skyrim will say after they find out about the college suffering an incident that could've ended Winterhold, at least there'll still be people alive to talk about it.

* * *

The Eye of Magnus:

Unsurprisingly, despite our hurried journey across half of Skyrim, the situation in Winterhold had worsened dramatically. What once was a barrier between us and Ancano in the Hall of the Elements had expanded, driving everyone from the premises and wrapping around the boundaries of the college itself, and the entirety of the Hold's guard had to be withdrawn from their posts to help contain the magic anomalies. What's worse is that despite the fact Savos managed to sneak Faralda out thanks to an invisibility spell, Mirabelle had to sacrifice herself to assure the two of them survived. From Savos' account, Ancano had been granted some arcane form of sight that allowed him to see through the spell, but whatever the reason, the college has lost one of its leaders.

It could've been worse all things considered, but before I could lament my failure to get back in time, we had a job to do. The wall of force Ancano had erected was dispelled by the Staff of Magnus just as anticipated, though Savos and the rest of the professors accompanying me were awestruck – both at the power of the staff, and the ease I seemed to use it. Granted, I'd more experience with Snow Elf staves than anyone there, but it impressed all the same. The staff also banished whatever anomalies we came across in the fight to reach Ancano, seemingly stitching up whatever tears in the fabric of our world he made as quickly as they came.

I dreaded to think what exactly Ancano had done to himself while I was away, but the man I bore witness to upon entering the hall could hardly be called composed. His robes were torn and shredded, his skin bearing the same runes that the Eye was adorned with, and his own eyes now a soulless black. Whatever Magnus intended when he left this artifact here, it certainly wasn't for mortals to tap into, and Ancano's state was proof of that.

His mind was just as fractured as his appearance too, it seemed. He maintained his arrogance, yes, but it was clear he was more than simply confident in his power now. He was positively obsessed with the Eye, convinced that it was telling him to unmake Mundus itself to access its full power, to unmake all that the divines had sacrificed to create. No one in the room even had the time to raise a ward before he cast mass paralysis, leaving only myself and him standing thanks to the artifacts in either of our possession.

If the battle with Morokei had taught me anything, its that when you're facing a foe of unimaginable power, you need to think quickly. I had to juggle dodging his attacks that unmade whatever they hit, restoring the damage he caused as to prevent the hall's pillars from collapsing, dispelling the anomalies he summoned, and counter-attacking, but Magnus' staff proved stronger than the Ancano's power to keep the Eye unleashed. It took a while, but I eventually sealed the Eye long enough for some of its latent power in Ancano to fade and begin my own offensive. I take no pleasure in saying his death was slow, the staff performing its function perfectly as it absorbed his magicka, then his stamina, before finally relinquishing his body of its life. His eyes showed nothing but hollow acceptance towards the end; and, just like any who tampers with the divines' artifacts for too long, he soon faded to ash.

Even though the Eye was sealed and everyone present was coming to without any lingering adverse effects beyond some soreness, whatever Ancano was doing seemed to still pose some threat, judging by the orb's destructive discharges. The professors of the college, myself, and Savos were discussing what exactly we should do – no one having a clue, sadly – when Quaranir and two of his colleagues appeared. As the trio began a binding ritual to move the Eye elsewhere, he thanked me for my assistance, and told us they were taking it back to their base for safe keeping and to prevent it from destroying the world. So long as I live, I imagine I'll never truly understand how or why the Psijics are so powerful that they can prevent the world from being destroyed, but only  _after_  they're assured the most direct threat has been neutralized. Gods-willing, I'll never have to deal with this sort of threat again.

It's incidents like these that remind me just how fragile Tamriel is nowadays, beyond what the history books and Glorel's accounts describe it to be. Gone are the days of stable empires ruling for centuries; now we live in an uncertain age plagued by civil war and the Thalmor's Aldmeri Dominion alike. Still, if Glorel and I can tip the balance of the world's very existence from safe to endangered to safe again in the span of a single winter, I hold out hope that prosperity will come again; for my people  _and_  the Empire. After all, it's not like the Empire has put me on the chopping block for existing – they've had more than enough time to sign my death warrant if they wanted to do that.

In any case, it's been three days since Ancano nearly ended the world, and just as much fallout as was expected has come to pass. The college has been once again marked as dangerous (as if Skyrim didn't already have a bad opinion of the place), and an extra few dozen guards have been told to reside in the city for security detail and to "keep an eye on you mages" in the Jarl's words.

Although most of the nearby Jarls and usual anti-mage Nords have reaffirmed their hatred, that isn't to say that everything's been bad the last few days. I was considered for taking Mirabelle's place as Master Wizard before Savos decided Tolfdir was the best one for the job, seeing as he had more likelihood of staying at the college to fulfill the daily duties that came with the title. Savos has also allowed me to keep the staff; likely due to it being a Snow Elf artifact and my part in retrieving it in the first place. Besides, it's not like it'd be any safer in the college than it would be in my own hands these days.

Perhaps the most impactful of the recent changes though is the fact that word's going to be getting out that a Snow Elf has helped save Winterhold. Already I've caught wind of quick-traveling but just as quick to die rumors about my origins; from being a time traveler to a guardian spirit of Nirn, despite the absurdity rising from one rumor to the next, I'm happy to hear that none of them are concerned with the whereabouts of the Snow Elves nowadays. Either Vyrthur's fears of our people being killed on sight by the Nords was wrong, or their hatred is far less volatile than it once was. I'm inclined to believe the latter judging by the presence of Mer in all walks of life in Skyrim – despite the Nords' history against them.

At any rate, the man who bears the Staff of Magnus is a rumor that's fast spreading throughout the province, and divines only know what my reputation will earn us if we need to interact with any Hold's higher-ups. Given that the winter is finally giving way to better weather and Glorel is tired of Winterhold's unforgiving tundra, we're headed to the more moderate regions of Skyrim next. She told me that though she's happy I feel comfortable in the college, she'd like to see what else the land has to offer; it's a pleasant change of pace from her feeling outcast, that's for sure. Though not entirely at home yet, I can see that the influence of her life's previous experiences on her is finally beginning to fade.

* * *

**Authors Note:** **So yeah! That caps off the first arc of this little pet project of mine. It's surprises me how quickly this story evolved in my head so organically, not that I'm complaining – in fact, it's a blessing! Anywho, I always had a minor problem with how Ancano – someone who was implied by the Augur to not be prepared for the Eye – suffers no negative effects for trying to harness an artifact well beyond anyone's understanding. Thus, him being warped was my answer.**


	6. Whiterun & Faith

Whiterun:

Seeing as she hails from the Summerset Isles, it was no surprise to me when Glorel told me she'd chosen the most moderate region in Skyrim as the destination for our next stop – Whiterun. She didn't choose the place with only weather in mind, though. She was curious to see how true the tales of honor and skill of the Companions were, from the stories she was told in her plentiful downtime in Winterhold. Not only that but with Whiterun being such a centerpiece of trade in the province, the place is guaranteed to have quite the cultural heritage for me to busy myself exploring. It'll be pleasant to busy myself again with tasks that don't involve me putting my life on the line, especially when said tasks involve learning more about Skyrim. Though my people did play a definitive role in shaping the province, that doesn't mean I can predict what happened after we isolated ourselves in the Chantry.

Of course, despite whatever fair weather we were blessed with to begin our journey, the civil war bore its ugly head once again. Just north of the plains Whiterun maintained its booming farmlands, we spotted a band of Imperials readying to launch an ambush on the Stormcloaks. Though we didn't by any means have to get involved in the skirmish as we moved around it, we did have to exercise extra caution to make sure we weren't mistaken as allies of either side.

The skirmish proved to be a sort of premonition of the atmosphere of Whiterun, it seemed. Though the city itself was booming with life and trade, there was clear indication of a divide in the allegiance of its people. Arguments in the streets about either side of the war were all too common, and I could've sworn I saw a pair of nobles ordering armor and weapons in preparation of what they hoped would be Imperial control of the currently neutral Hold. Where anywhere to the east or west was firmly devoted to either side, Whiterun's Jarl sees fit to remain neutral for as long as he can. I tend to agree with his sentiment in the matter; after all, it doesn't take a genius to understand that Whiterun's central location with draw in all manner of raids and sieges once they take a side. Even with their walls and elevated position, I doubt either faction's siege engines will have a problem tearing their defenses down – especially if Ulfric himself is involved.

Once we looked beyond the tension though, the city itself was quick to display why it earned the title of trade hub, thanks to crowds everywhere we looked. I imagine I'll have more time in the future to explore the city further, but the rest of our day was spent either booking a room in one of the city's many inns for the foreseeable future or weaving our way through the crowds to get to Jorrvaskr – home of the Companions. One thing I did note on the way though was the seemingly dead Gildergreen tree nearby our destination. Judging by its branches, it must've been quite the sight to see, and I do plan on investigating it later in our stay here. I imagine I could've very well investigated it today, but I preferred looking into the Companions' views on history first. After all, they are the organization descended of Ysgramor's Five Hundred Companions – the very same army that'd signaled the end of Snow Elf society back in the day.

While Glorel was getting recruited by proving herself in a sparring match against a member of their inner circle called Vilkas, I stayed out of the way of the friendly brawls and sparring matches around Jorrvaskr in favor of learning what I could. Granted, even though such displays of martial skill aren't my idea of an enjoyable activity, I could see the makings of many great warriors in Jorrvaskr. Even Glorel seems to have some things to learn from the Companions – though the myriad of techniques she's learned on her travels seems to have earned the attention of the guild's inner circle, which I can't help but think will be good for her reputation among the Nords.

While Glorel was successful in making waves and proving her skill, I'm afraid my own inquiries into the Companions' past was less than successful. Whoever I asked amongst their number always had some bite to their response because of my being a mage, (evidently my arcane proficiency was more important to them than my heritage) and even those who did humor me were often more eager to tell their more recent tales than those of their organization's past. All I was able to gather is what anyone else could already tell you; that they hold honorable combat and creating one's own legends by one's deeds sacred, and that the guild has long since moved on from their origins as slaughterers of Elves to accept any recruits that prove their worth. At the end of the day, I learned where Skyrim's toleration of Elves in all areas of society originated from, at least.

It's certainly more interesting of an inquiry into the past than learning about the college's history, that's for sure. Not that I didn't appreciate the perspectives and history of the college, but most mage organizations tend to have similar origins that lead them to their focus on studying magic, and the College of Winterhold was no different. The Companions however are the first organization I've run into that has a more unpredictable history behind them that you can't predict like you can with any magical organization. Even if I've read the Chantry's accounts of the original Companions, their contemporary counterparts are a much different topic to study. I imagine that Glorel will be able to tell me more when she returns from Jorrvaskr, judging by how much more welcoming they were of her than me – being the mage who was involved in Winterhold's near-destruction and all.

Besides, Glorel's enjoying the fact the Companions don't mind her being an Elf, despite their history. Maybe as the college felt like a place I could exchange notes and stories with my colleagues freely to me, Glorel will feel the same in Jorrvaskr. At any rate, I'm at least happy that she's finding something enjoyable to do on our travels. Tomorrow is when my exploration of this grand city truly begins, I think.

* * *

Faith:

I don't quite know what I expected the daily tasks of a Companion to be, but I suppose being sent on the physical tasks too dangerous or too minor for the average Hold guard to take care of makes sense given the reputation Jorrvaskr's warriors have. Glorel's first mission she was given was from a member of the inner circle itself; Skjor, being the hardass he is towards new recruits, said it was to make sure her even matchup against Vilkas wasn't a fluke. So, she and Aela the Huntress, the Companions' resident archery master and another member of The Circle, were off to the Valtheim Towers downriver of Whiterun to take care of the bandits holed up there. I almost felt sorry that the two of them came back by the end of the day, since that means the poor sods barely stood a chance. I knew that the two of them were fast becoming friends – much like Savos and myself – but I dread to think what being in the way of the two of them must've been like.

While the two of them were off doing that though, I made use of my freedom and explored the city's trio of districts, though I didn't get too close to the Jarl's castle, given I didn't want to unnerve the guards with a stranger trying to get in without reason. Most of my time was unsurprisingly occupied in the residential district, given the number of cultural sites there. The first that drew my eye though was Heimskr nearby the Shrine of Talos, preaching away with more pious vigor than I saw in half the pilgrims back in the Chantry – and that's saying something.

With all his piety, I didn't quite expect his fervor for the faith to come across as more amusing than it was trying to convert others to worship, which was surprising given how serious of a crime Talos worship is considered by the Thalmor. The more I spoke to him and learned of Talos' role in the formation of the Empire, ascending from mortality to godhood due to his deeds of uniting Tamriel according to Heimskr, the more I wondered how the Thalmor hadn't yet noticed and silenced him. Granted, their agents only truly have jurisdiction in Empire-controlled territories, and Whiterun is neutral at present, but it was surprising all the same.

It wasn't too long after he took the time to speak to me before he had to return to his sermons, for whatever fulfillment they gave him. That's when the latter half of my day began to drain away, though I didn't think what came next would take up the rest of my day. The Gildergreen tree that I'd passed upon arriving in Whiterun was being tended by a priestess of Kynareth, and I took the opportunity to find out what'd happened to it. She informed me that the poor thing was struck by lightning just a few weeks prior to our arrival, and with its death came what was soon to be the end of the Temple of Kynareth itself. The tree had been a centerpiece of any pilgrim's journey to worship Kynareth according to her, given its roots were born from the Eldergleam tree's.

It was at the mention of the Eldergleam that I realized just how true the Gildergreen's history was. Not that I had any reason to doubt the validity of her account, but I was reminded of Glorel telling me about the Eldergleam a while back. According to the Bosmer Glorel associated with back during her days in Valenwood, the Eldergleam was rumored to have been one of the first trees to have ever been born, only moved as a gesture of good faith towards the Nords millennia ago.

Danica then asked for my help retrieving the sap of the Eldergleam needed to revive it, having heard of my deeds in Winterhold. Given that I knew the Gildergreen was truly authentic in the history she provided me, and it would've been a damned shame for it to meet such an abrupt end, I agreed. We moved into the Temple to seek guidance from Kynareth herself, and I couldn't help but wonder if my prayer to the goddess could be considered heresy. Given that the goddess' sphere is that of the elements, I settled on the idea that she was simply another aspect of Y'ffre, so my prayer to her wasn't so much heresy as it was respecting another aspect of the God of the forest.

I forget how long it was before I was struck by a realization, divine or not I don't know. All life has needed magic before during one point in its growth, yes? Given that magic possesses the spark of life needed for any of our souls to come into being, it thus suitably follows that magic could be used to revive that which is recently dead. The principles of such a task already lay in Restoration – the only difference being the target this time would be a plant, not a person.

It was with this realization that I returned outside to the Gildergreen and, in a spur of the moment plan, provided my powers to the divines. Given the Staff of Magnus' divine capability, I figured it'd be as good a conduit as any to test my faith; and so, I planted it at the foot of the Gildergreen and prayed that Kynareth would make use of my strength. Again, time was lost to me, but when next I returned to the world I saw a blue ribbon wrapped around the Gildergreen before it merged with the ancient tree, the seemingly dead branches bursting to life shortly thereafter. Both Danica and many of the pilgrims that'd gathered around were quick to thank me, despite my assurances that the miracle was not mine to make.

It was then that Aela and Glorel returned, both pleased to see the Gildergreen blossom again but nonetheless continuing back to Jorrvaskr to confirm their mission's success without delay. I imagine Glorel will have more to ask about how and why the tree has so suddenly sprung back to life when she gets back to the inn, but for now I can at least take a moment to relax and think.

Prior to now, other pantheons have been… enigmatic at best. Though Glorel has given me the fundamentals of the pantheons of races ranging from the Khajit's to the Redguard's faiths, they've only seemed like interesting stories for me to remember until now. I've always been one to respect and admire the differences of faith any two pantheons may exhibit, but now I must try and figure out why those differences exist to begin with. Given how my prayers were answered by Kynareth in a similar fashion to how tales of Y'ffre describe his miracles, I can only assume that each race's interpretation of the divines is what created such differences in faith. The idea is enough to render every religious war ever waged – except against the Daedra, who're another matter entirely given their relation to the Dunmer – an entirely meaningless endeavor only brought about by politics, no one realizing that the gods their leaders proclaim have commanded them onto the battlefield are in fact the same as those of their foes.

For now though, I'll simply keep these thoughts between myself and Glorel. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that I wouldn't get two steps into promoting these ideas before someone were to try and kill me, especially given the Talos issue that everyone's preoccupied fighting over nowadays. Maybe this is why the Nords drink so heavily? To fill their heads with the haze of drunkenness so they don't need to think about this sort of thing. I'm almost inclined to join them tonight.

* * *

**Authors Note:** **Yeah yeah, miracles by faith are a bit cheesy, but I can't help but feel in a world of magic, the Thu'um, and talking cat-people that having a divine artifact channel a miracle to bring a tree back to life is hardly the most unrealistic thing Sindri coulda done. Nonetheless, Glorel's excursion into The Companions begins! A shame that there's so little to work with in the questline, but I get the feeling Glorel will be spending less time in Jorrvaskr than she thinks.**


	7. The Circle & Helgen

The Circle:

Today started out simply, all things considered. Glorel and I made a point to witness the sunrise over Whiterun's plains and spent most of the morning thereafter sharing with each other our findings from yesterday – of which Glorel was most interested with my involvement with the Gildergreen. While we were relishing in the swift rebirth of the ancient tree, and I attempted to dissuade Danica from showering me with any more thanks than she already had, The Circle – the Companions' most distinguished fighters – were fast assembling a new quest for Glorel.

Given the efficacy and the swiftness by which Aela and Glorel cleared out the Valtheim Towers, it obviously impressed The Circle. So much so in fact that they were willing to send her off to the Draugr-infested Dustman's Cairn to retrieve a fragment of Wuuthrad. Wuuthrad has a distinct place of near-reverence among the Companions, and it's no surprise given its history. It was the same battle axe that Ysgramor used to exact his vengeance on Elves for the Night of Tears, and the same battle axe that ended up signaling the end of my people's society. Given the fact that The Circle's brothers Vilkas and Farkas were being sent with Glorel to retrieve the fragment, I figured that the place might've been more dangerous than I was comfortable sending her off to, but she seemed to trust the two brothers enough to make the journey and have her back, so I didn't argue.

Not only did she trust them, but I found out a phrase the Companions use among their number – "Shield-Sibling." Given that the Companions were lacking in terms of useful information, it figures that I wasn't privy to this information until someone close to me was being sent off to an accursed tomb. The phrase is used to denote a sort of respect and willingness to defend another in battle without a second thought, and given the importance honor holds among the guild's members, its no wonder the phrase originated in their halls. At least it reassured me that the two brothers would have her back, and vice-versa.

To think, I'm in love with a Mer that's helping to reassemble the battle axe that partly ended up sealing my people in the Chantry. Vyrthur would kill me if he found out, holy vows never to harm another Snow Elf or not – he did witness Ysgramor wielding the weapon after all, before retreating himself back to the Chantry's hidden halls. Judging by the fact only a handful of fragments are missing from the ancient axe now, I wouldn't doubt that the Companions' quest to reassemble it might come to fruition, if they're lucky enough to find the rest.

Glorel and the brothers assured that another landed in their hands safely, at the very least.

They returned with the fragment and nothing but a few dings on their armor – and dried Draugr blood – to show for their troubles. They did encounter members of the Silver Hand there though. It appears that the honorable Companions' inner circle carry quite the double-edged sword in their blood – lycanthropy. The very same disease that many followers of Hircine pray they will contract for want of the ability to turn into a were-beast splits The Circle's leadership in two. Some wish for it to be cured so that they may have their souls rest in Sovngarde, others scoff at the search for such a cure and embrace the combat prowess the disease provides, some even embracing the fact their souls will be claimed by Hircine in the end. Given how widespread and bordering-on-accepted worship of the Prince of the Hunt is among hunters and trappers alike, it doesn't surprise me Aela is one to embrace the curse.

This knowledge in of itself wasn't quite cause for a stir though, in my eyes. I agreed to keep Savos' past buried, and if Glorel wants to keep The Circle's affliction secret, who am I to argue? The Circle didn't seem to even consider the possibility of their disease being revealed to the public thanks to how much they trust Glorel – especially after the trials of retrieving Wuuthrad's fragment. They praised her as one of their number that'd proven themselves in trial by combat, something as close to a seal of approval as the organization could provide, and invited her into The Circle to recognize her prowess. Of course, the invitation wasn't as simple as it first appeared once Skjor explained how accepting the offer worked.

I didn't particularly mind The Circle's inner squabbling about their disease so long as it didn't affect myself or Glorel, but it appeared that it was going to be harder to stay away from the disease than either of us first thought. The Circle requested she meet them underneath their ancient forge around midnight; and that's when I began to grow nervous. No matter how little I know of the origins of lycanthropy, what I do know is that the moon's height holds a place of immense importance to those afflicted.

Though both of us anticipated the offer of Skjor to offer Glorel the beast-blood tonight, what we didn't know was that he saw it as the only rite of passage into The Circle. Glorel is many things; a woman of her faith and friends, respectful of all perspectives around her, and committed to protecting those closest to her, but someone willing to involve herself with a Daedra's "gift" she is not.

Thus, when Glorel returned and informed me of the incident that it was no surprise that she rejected their offer, not wanting anything to do with someone she knows is tied to Hircine, no matter what respect and place of honor that earns her among The Companions.

She's remained quiet these last few hours, and its no wonder why. Out of all the places she's been and all the groups she's encountered, it was never her that was the one that decided to part ways – it was always the society around her or the most ignorant amongst them that pushed her out. Now she's the one that needs to decide whether to abandon her newly found ties to the guild or not. Given how the guild still honors her honor and combat prowess, I don't think she'll cut all ties with them, or even leave on bad terms should she choose for us to move on from Whiterun. She might need some space from them, sure, but I think anyone would like to take a short break from an organization that interprets contracting a Daedra's disease as a prerequisite to be one of their leaders.

Should Glorel decide to stay with the guild, we'll be moving out south tomorrow morning. She was asked to deal with some sort of wraith that, by the description given, sounds like a leftover magic anomaly from Ancano's meddling. Given that the damned things accept killing blows from blades about as well as if you were to strike air, I'll be going with her to dispel the thing with my staff. If we're quick and make use of the horses provided to us by The Companions for the mission, we should be able to take shelter in Helgen for the night and report back to Whiterun the following morning.

* * *

Helgen:

What started out as a simple dispelling of one of the remaining anomalies that managed to escape our notice turned into what can only be described as a disaster. We made impeccable time dealing with the magic anomaly, but it was our quick ride to Helgen that transformed the mission that we'd hoped would be a breath of fresh air away from any disasters into a potential crisis in the making. Given that Helgen is in the Imperial-controlled Falkreath Hold, it wasn't quite a surprise to see prisoner's carts bound for the chopping block being marched into the half-town half-stronghold, but what was surprising was  _who_  they were executing.

Unsurprisingly gagged – given his prior actions – and sitting in the rear of the prisoner carts, was none other than Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak himself.

We reasonably assumed we were witnessing what would be a decisive killing blow to the civil war, but kept moving a reasonable distance away to the stables to relieve our steeds of their burdens. We still upheld our neutral stance in the war, though if push came to shove we would act to protect the townsfolk of Helgen if the Stormcloaks made some last-minute rescue attempt that ended up setting the town ablaze. Though the execution was quite the occasion to be sure, it was only what occured soon into the process that turned the day into a disaster.

As a Breton with no clear allegiance to Ulfric was being walked over to the chopping block – a man who's name we later learned is Baldur – a dragon with wings as pitch black as night landed atop Helgen's watchtower, and all Oblivion broke loose.

Despite our shelter, the ensuing Thu'um that exploded from the dragon's tongue nearly took everyone off their feet, and it was all that I could do to protect Glorel and I from the fireballs that rained down from the sky with my staff. As soon as the stable – and our steeds – lay in ruins, we knew we had to move. In the hysteria, the only souls we were able to confirm we saved was the Breton's, given he was swift enough on his feet to keep up with us and wise enough to not engage the beast. Anyone with less clarity of mind than myself would've likely then tried to attack the dragon with the Staff of Magnus, but given that I had no idea whether the dragon's Thu'um would turn me into a fine red bloodstain like he was the Imperial soldiers, I decided against the idea.

Baldur then introduced himself and, thanks to us happening across the Imperial barracks that held all their prisoners' gear, thanked us for the assistance as he re-armed himself. Just like with my first encounter with Glorel, it was clear this Breton had much more going for him than his witty demeanor would have you believe. His gear was a testament to this, his leather armor possessing plenty of compartments for either stolen goods, or poisons and throwing knives by the looks of it, and a blade not unbefitting that of an assassin or equally roguish individual.

Although he was certainly anything but calm during the initial attack, now that we were relatively safe and able to look for a way out, he regained his composure, already at ease having heard of our deeds. Whether or not that was him being a fool or simply dissuading us from thinking about why or how he ended up on the executioner's block, I don't yet know. I imagine that we'll find out more about him if he accompanies us back to Whiterun, but I digress.

I'd held out hope that if we were to encounter any legionnaires or Stormcloaks that they'd be willing to cease their hostilities to strike a makeshift alliance to escape Helgen, but unfortunately that didn't turn out to be the case. The next chamber over we entered was drenched in the blood of the Legion, and of the fallen Stormcloaks that'd perished before the rest of their number ended the encounter. It was there that we had to carve our way through the Nords, their unwillingness to accept us as potential allies – and not loyalists to the Empire – sealing their fate. If nothing else, the fighting taught me just how formidable these Stormcloaks were to be fighting the Empire so evenly, and that Baldur was exactly the dirty fighter he appeared to be.

It was only when interrogation chambers and jail cells gave way to caves and frostbite spiders did we encounter the Legion, who didn't pull their blades on us thanks to their Captain recognizing me and Glorel. Though I did notice Baldur shrinking back and hiding his face from them, I don't think the soldiers were as concerned with his identity as they were getting out of the caves alive. Thankfully, neither the three of us nor the Imperial troops ran into anything more than local wildlife on the rest of our escape, and we parted ways as soon as we confirmed the dragon had long since left Helgen.

We've since made our way north to Riverwood, the closest place with an inn to Whiterun as we were going to find and have elected to take shelter here for the night before reporting what happened in Helgen to the city's guard. Since Baldur had the most up-close look at the dragon, I hope he's willing to join us. After all, where sightings of legendary beasts are concerned, people tend to err on the side of suspicion rather than taking someone's word at face value, and another eye-witness testimony can't hurt our chances of being believed. Even if he chooses not to join us, it's not like our chances plummet too far, what with my own and Glorel's reputations likely having been brought to Jarl Balgruuf's attention by now. So long as we can get into Dragonsreach with Glorel's upstanding reputation, we'll at least be able to notify Jarl Balgruuf personally if his city guards don't.

* * *

**Authors Note:** **Alrighty then! So begins the Dragon Crisis in the making. I'll tell you this – the main quest arc is gonna be one helluva fun thing to write given some of the set pieces, and I look forward to sharing it all with you! Oh, and why is Baldur likely my Dragonborn OC…? Because I'm a sucker for the dynamic of the trinity of warriors in ESO's cinematics, ok? I'll admit it!**


	8. The Dragonstone & A Greater Calling

The Dragonstone:

Well, it'd appear that Glorel and I have been wrapped into the province's affairs once again, to no one's surprise. I think it'd be more shocking if the mage that stopped the destruction of Mundus opted to stay out of this potential dragon crisis, but I digress.

Baldur elected to accompany us when we left Riverwood three days ago, under the excuse he had nothing better to do and was short on coin, but I suspect he shares the same concerns about the sudden dragon attack that we all do nowadays. Our arrival in Whiterun was stopped by the city guard, evidently rumor of the dragon attacking Helgen arriving faster than we did on foot. Once we informed the guard we bore witness to the incident though, we were quickly escorted by the city guard's captain himself to Dragonsreach for an audience with Jarl Balgruuf. We informed him of the power the beast displayed to tear the once vibrant town to shreds, and he was quick to send guards to Riverwood to try and protect it from the possibility of the dragon attacking any towns nearby.

Up until that point my opinions of the Jarl were neutral, but with his first impression being one of concern for his people and not suspicion of our sincerity, I've elected to think of him as someone with the best interests of Whiterun at heart. If his neutral stance in the war to protect his Hold from the ravages of war wasn't proof of his good nature, then his view of our testimony providing truth to the rumors of dragons certainly did.

It wasn't long before we were put back to work, with the Jarl introducing me to Farengar, his Court Wizard, to try and theorize why the dragons had appeared so suddenly. Glorel and – reluctantly judging by the look on his face – Baldur were sent off to Bleak Falls Barrow to try and find what we later named the Dragonstone.

After we said our goodbyes and the pair were sent off, Farengar and I were quick to exchange ideas. Until they returned with the Dragonstone we had nothing solid, and so all we could come up with was guesswork based upon whatever inquiries of the Dragon Cult's ruins yielded over the years. In the end, it took the appearance of Farengar's as of now unnamed associate's collaboration to get any meaningful results. She not only provided a log of dragon sightings from over the eras – which bore no discernable pattern but was appreciated all the same by Farengar – but also input that I admit made me look quite the fool.

She posed the question that given the ancient history I was most likely privy to, no matter my place of birth as a Snow Elf, my people must've had some sort of encounter with the dragons in the past, yes? The fact that both myself and Farengar were blind to the idea up until her mentioning it was either a testament to her intelligence, or to our stupidity. I'm inclined to believe the former.

She was right, in the end. It didn't take long for me to remember the legend of the twin dragons – Naalslaarum and Volslaarum – seeking shelter after the disappearance of their leader Alduin, and the subsequent Thu'um-assisted revolt of mankind. They arrived in the Chantry and 'negotiated' with Vyrthur for the right to hide under the lakebed of a nearby glacier, in return for both our location being kept secret from mankind and for the two dragons' mercy. Vyrthur had always told me the legend was made to spite him, to discredit his strength of leadership in the wake of being forced to hide our people in the Chantry, but I'd finally realized the truth behind the legend. It doesn't matter whether Vyrthur was forced to bend a knee to the dragons or not, (though I sincerely hope they remain asleep now that I know the legend is true) but what does matter is why they decided to run to begin with. Alduin disappeared, and though I know not why or how, what matters now is that we know the name and role of the dragon that attacked Helgen.

Alduin, The World-Eater, has returned to Tamriel, and that can only mean one thing – that he intends to complete his prophetic duty. Despite the grim realization, I couldn't help but laugh at the fact this was only one step removed from the battle of divine proportion I'd engaged in with Ancano. Granted, according to the Jarl (who surprised us all by the fact he was listening to begin with) only a Dragonborn could hope to stop Alduin once and for all, but if blows came to blows I don't doubt my staff's potential to at least ward off an attack or two of his. Before I could thank Farengar's associate though, she was gone like the wind.

Unsurprisingly, once Glorel and Baldur returned – one bearing the stone, the other with an assortment of gems and jewelry from the crypt – we were informed that the place was infested with your typical Draugr. Only, according to Glorel, these Draugr were now noted to have glowing eyes, whereas all the undead she'd encountered up until this point simply had their original eyes in an unaltered state. If there was any doubt of the link between Alduin and the undead cultists, the connection was now confirmed. It's simply too much of a coincidence for the Draugr to begin speaking in Dovahzul with magic in their eyes at the same time as the Alduin's reappearance for the two to not share some form of connection. It's up to Farengar to decipher what that specific link is from the Dragonstone, though, as well as whether the link even matters in the end as much as the need to end the threat remains to be seen. On a side note, Glorel seems convinced that Baldur is loosening up in our presence the longer he sticks around, which may end up allowing us to understand why exactly he ended up on the chopping block. Not strictly necessary to our primary objective, but a facet of our newfound companion we're both curious about all the same.

I've since informed Glorel of my findings and of the accompanying legends, and we've both arrived at a similar conclusion. Despite our desire to simply travel and explore Tamriel for all the wonders Glorel's witnessed and wishes to share with me, that at least for now, the divines have chosen a greater path for us. It's certainly not the culturally enlightening experience we envisioned once upon a time, but in a way, we're living the legends we would otherwise be investigating from secondhand sources, so we'll endure whatever troubles we encounter in this chapter of our lives. After all, time is fleeting, and this too shall pass.

* * *

A Greater Calling:

If there was any doubt as to whether recent happenings could be called a crisis or not, then the events of the past two days settle the matter in favor of the crisis status.

In the wake of the previous excursion into the bowels of Bleak Falls Barrow, all three of us were convinced that for any new mission to be given to us related to the dragons, it'd take Farengar at least a few days to figure out where to send us next – and that was if Baldur stuck around. He didn't exhibit the same uncaring attitude this morning he did before being roped into retrieving the Dragonstone, but nonetheless he was clearly anxious, not that I blame him. Where ancient beasts of the Thu'um are concerned, I think that even the greatest of the Companions would be given pause at the idea of having to hunt down one of the beasts. Unfortunately for him, the crisis showed no intent of lessening in severity as the Jarl's Housecarl fetched us from our reprieve.

A dragon had been sighted a stone's throw from Whiterun's western watchtower, and with the three of us being the most experienced in Skyrim concerning the beasts, we were tasked with investigating it. We were sent with an accompaniment of the Jarl's city guard and his Housecarl, and it wasn't long before the black smoke over the ruined tower provided us all the answer as to what happened while we were on our way. The dragon had – in what was only an hour from its sighting to our arrival – burnt most of the guard stationed there to a crisp and torn down whatever stone walls the tower once possessed like the twigs of a tree.

The dragon wasn't finished with the watchtower though, appearing for another round of slaughter within minutes of us finding survivors, proudly introducing himself with a roar of his name – Mirmulnir. As could be expected by any battle against a dragon where no one had even so much as seen one in centuries, the conflict ended with several of the guard either dead or wounded. The only reason there was even any number left standing by the end of it was thanks to my wards and healing spells, and it's a miracle in of itself that some of the Nords managed to hit Mirmulnir with their bows, let alone keep him on the ground once he landed.

While the guards kept him distracted, it was the three of us that delivered the decisive blows of the encounter, though it was no small feat. Glorel sent forth a hail of arrows into its ancient scales while my flurries of frost slowed him down. Before either I could cast forth any more destruction spells or Glorel could aim a killing arrow to his eye, Baldur was the one to end the battle. Mounting the dragon even as it attempted to throw him off his back, his poisoned blade proved stronger than the dragon's ability to cope with, and the victory was ours. As if slaying a dragon wasn't enough of an event for one day, its very flesh began burning away inside and out. In a process like a conjurer claiming the spirit of their foe, the dragon's soul was claimed, worming its way into Baldur's being.

After I explained to our Breton companion what exactly happened – and he told me he'd no idea how such a thing happened – the remaining city guard threw in the claim of Baldur being Dragonborn. Even from what little I knew about the intricacies of what it means to be Dragonborn, it seemed as possible a theory as any. Those who're Dragonborn either were destined for a legitimate claim of the Empire's throne or possessed the ability to slay dragons like no other mortal could hope to. A dragon's soul lingers on Nirn after their death, thus allowing for them to have a chance at life again by magics unknown to me, but I imagine were plentiful in the Dragon Cult's time. If they're slain by a Dragonborn however, there's a chance that the soul-binding display that Baldur exhibited was in fact him ridding the beast's body of any chance of returning. The idea was solid, though I imagine any of the Nord scholars would know more of the subject than me.

While Baldur and I were lost in thought on the march back into the city concerning the implications of the appearance of a Dragonborn, Glorel was the first to inform the Jarl of our victory. It took her shaking the two of us out of our stupor for us to even recognize that Balgruuf was bestowing upon us the title of Thane – heroes and people of immense importance to the Jarl himself. After the ensuing celebrations and monetary thanks from the Jarl, we were left to our own devices once again, at least until Farengar could get back to us.

We returned to the Bannered Mare with Baldur – who up until this point was still uncharacteristically silent – offering us drinks. It was clear by the tension he carried that although he was certain he had nothing to fear from the two of us, he was still taken aback from the events of the day, if not the weight of what he was contemplating telling us on his shoulders.

It wasn't long before he loosened his tongue, and his past was laid out before us over the next few hours. In the aftermath of the Great War with the Aldmeri Dominion, Baldur's family was either dead, lost, or homeless. In a bid to survive the chaos, he resorted to a life of petty thievery to get by, only going so far as to support himself one day to the next. As time went on however, the seedier underbelly that blossomed during the war in the Imperial City contacted Baldur, offering greater jobs with higher pay. One thieving led to another, and eventually to assassinations – the details of which Baldur chose to omit – and a level of notoriety he could never hope to escape in Cyrodiil. He was even open enough to share his hopes for the future, with him heavily considering openly accepting the title of Dragonborn as the clean slate he'd prayed for when he left for Skyrim.

I assured him that, if he should so choose it, this very well could be that new beginning he was looking for. That, and we told him Glorel and I'd already somewhat come to terms with the divines choosing us to have a greater part to play in history. At the very least, we had plenty of drinks to wash away the worries of the future last night. This morning however reminded us with thunderous force just how foolish it was for us to think we could postpone our duties – if only for a night.

It couldn't have been more than a handful of minutes after we woke that the Thu'um of the Greybeards sounded from atop the Throat of the World, calling forth the Dragonborn, the "Dovahkiin." It didn't take long for us to realize the call was a summons for Baldur, and that we had quite the ascent ahead of us. Both Glorel and myself have chosen to accompany Baldur up to High Hrothgar, given the makeshift alliance we've ended up in since Helgen. That, and because Glorel is fast beginning to consider Baldur a shield-brother, despite whatever dirty fighting techniques he employs. In her words, "He showed his merit with the damned dragon, and it's not like we don't use foul play in a fight. What do you call magic?" Short jab at my lifelong studies aside, her words rang true.

Judging by the reverence even Balgruuf displayed for the Greybeards, they'll likely be our best chance at stopping the dragons. If they don't provide a solution to the issue, which is likely given their pacifism, they'll at least help Baldur hone his own Thu'um. Right now, all he can muster is a wave of force only able to rock a man's balance but, given time and the Greybeards' respect for training those of the Dragonblood, I imagine Baldur will be able to muster a shout comparable to that of Alduin himself. The divines may test us with the tasks ahead of us, but they've also provided a beacon of hope in the face of the dragons that've yet to come.

* * *

**Authors Note:** **Woooooo! Baldur's past and reaction to being Dragonborn was something I very much looked forward to writing. I always admired the idea of a thief trying to turn a new leaf but keeping their old fighting habits despite whatever honorable connotations their new titles might imply. At any rate, our little trio now has quite the dynamic, huh? A thief, a mage, and a warrior walk into the Bannered Mare… sounds like the beginning of a bad joke. Or an alternate beginning for ESO's cinematic trailers.**


	9. High Hrothgar & Ally Unveiled

High Hrothgar:

For once in my time in Skyrim, I've been pleasantly surprised, with my hopes for our quest turning out to be well-justified. The Greybeards are as calm and collected an order of pious men as the tales around Skyrim describe them, though despite the fact this could hardly be called a surprise, it's a change of pace from the setbacks our previous quests have encountered.

We left Whiterun around two weeks ago now, the mountainous terrain having lent itself to make our journey less swift than if we were trudging through the snowbanks of Winterhold. Nonetheless, our journey was unimpeded by any form of resistance or encounters with Stormcloak patrols, so I count the time we made as a success. Two days of that journey were either spent climbing the Throat of the World or fighting through the mountain's various trolls and bears, much to our inconvenience. I imagine we could've made better time if we wanted, but given the increasing cold and the decreasing amount of air the higher we went, I think the time we made was commendable for what is the highest peak in the world. Granted, we aren't yet at the summit, but High Hrothgar is our destination, not quite the peak.

All the better too, since Glorel and Baldur aren't quite as comfortable in freezing weather as myself. I could tell that once they saw we were within view of the monastery, they couldn't have been more relieved at the prospect of taking a well-earned reprieve from the cold. It's times like these I thank the divines for my heritage; if being a Snow Elf is good for one thing, it's avoiding frostbite without the need to layer on copiously thick fur coats.

A brief aside: it occurs to me now that I've a moment to think that the pilgrimage many Nords make to High Hrothgar is much like the pilgrim's path in the Chantry. I wonder if this was a carry-over from the brief time of peace the Atmorans and my people coexisted? Otherwise, that begs the question why the Greybeards' founder ever decided to place High Hrothgar on this peak rather than any of the other hundreds of isolated mountains. Any one of Skyrim's peaks could've just as well served to be a test of a would-be pilgrim's devotion without running the risk of said pilgrim nearly killing themselves on the journey upwards. Thank the divines for our foresight to bring potions and cloaks, at any rate. I could only imagine how many would-be pilgrims have perished on the ascent due to unpreparedness.

When we did arrive at the foot of the monastery, and Baldur cautiously knocked at the frosted-over doors of High Hrothgar, we were welcomed by Master Arngeir – who I later found out is the only one of the masters who is even able to hold a conversation without his voice killing those he speaks to. It appears that the study of the Thu'um renders the learners unable to speak out of the concern that their voice will harm others, which serves to inform me that both Ulfric and Arngeir need to be exceptionally powerful to reel in their unbridled power.

Though he didn't seem particularly thrilled with welcoming anyone else other than the man he and his order had invited, Arngeir still did allow Glorel and I into their home so long as we didn't interfere with the Dragonborn's training. Speaking of, Baldur's training seems to consist more of repeatedly shouting and being gifted new understanding of the Thu'um than the quiet prayer and contemplation for years that the Greybeards endure on a single word of power – words of power being the magical dragon-runes that draw forth the power of the dragon's language when understood to their core. Right now, Baldur is practicing the same unnaturally swift sprint Ulfric used in his escape from Solitude, which is a welcomed change from the repeated cracks of unrelenting force that echoed in the stone halls a few minutes ago. I imagine that eventually their training will involve more uncomfortably loud shouts in the least sound-proof place in Skyrim, but for now Glorel and I happily accept the quiet recuperation Baldur's initiation buys us.

Judging by how our journey thus far has been proceeding, I imagine we'll be on the move again tomorrow with some new errand to complete Baldur's initiation. So long as it doesn't involve battling a dragon priest or a dragon I'll live with whatever such a task involves.

* * *

Ally Unveiled:

The divines must have some wicked sense of humor where our journey is concerned, but first thing's first – after all, I can't quite keep an accurate journal if I'm bouncing around events. As predicted, the Greybeards' initiation for Baldur into their order wasn't so simple as them bestowing upon him knowledge and testing his ability to act upon it. No, they saw fit to send us halfway across Skyrim in search of the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, buried in Ustengrav in the swaps of Hjaalmarch's Draugr ruins. Out of all the places their order could've buried their founder, why they chose swampland I will never understand, but this in of itself was only a minor inconvenience. After all, so long as our trip was swift and successful, the minor errand would only help Baldur and by extension, Skyrim as a whole.

At this point, I regret ever letting Baldur urge us down the mountain with the urgency he did.

Though the march to Ustengrav itself was unmarred by anything more than sore feet and the occasional cliffside path of the mountains we'd already climbed, it was the night we made camp next to the ruins that Oblivion broke loose. In the first hour after we set up camp, the resident mages and bandits within the ruins saw fit to begin fighting over mining rights of the ruins' halls, ending with the bandits' enthrallment and the mages assumption of our small party being there to try and wipe them out. Poor mages they turned out to be; they hardly stood a chance between the three of us, despite their numbers.

But the sorrows of that night didn't end with our already weary selves needing to fend off mad mages. I swear by Stendarr's mercy that as soon as we sheathed our weapons a dragon's roar thundered through the humid air. Granted, this dragon didn't display nearly as much self-aggrandizement nor the strength of Mirmulnir, but it was a heavy inconvenience, to say the least. By the time we fell the beast our camp lay in ruins and our bodies about as ready to collapse as if we'd sustained a fatal wound in the fighting. Baldur – ungodly witty bastard he is – only asked if we were too tired to continue into Ustengrav that night. It appears that the absorption of a dragon's soul does more for him than just bestow him the beast's knowledge of the Thu'um. It electrifies him, restoring his fighting vigor as if he'd been drugged with the Khajit's finest moon sugar. That night, Baldur took watch while Glorel and I found what used to be the bandits' old sleeping quarters in the opening chamber of Ustengrav. I fully anticipated him to perhaps use his skill as a thief and assassin to scout out the chambers ahead, but when we woke we were blessed enough to be given another "fortunate" surprise.

Baldur had already snuck his way into the heart of Ustengrav and found that the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller had already been taken from the ruins. We fought through mages, enthralled bandits, and a dragon – and were about to end up fighting through an entire ruin of Draugr – just to come out empty handed. The three of us were understandably irritated, and that's putting it lightly, to find out that the horn had been taken by an unnamed individual who claimed to be our friend. The note they left behind made mention of renting "the attic room" in Riverwood's inn to contact them, and with no other leads to the horn, we had to follow.

Now taking double the time we needed to even retrieve the horn – ignoring the trip around the mountain we'd have to take on our return to the Greybeards – we made our way swiftly to Riverwood, this time with the divines seeing fit to not obstruct our journey with any ungodly interruptions. It was there that I found out that Farengar's ally that helped jog my memory was none other than the innkeeper Delphine herself. She provided Baldur the horn, and requested we provide her an audience before we left.

Glorel and I recommended Baldur do nothing of the sort, since he made it a point that time was of the essence when we left High Hrothgar, but his experience with the covert and shadow-dwelling people of Tamriel guided his hand, and Delphine was given an audience. To Baldur's credit, it wasn't as fruitless an expenditure of our time as the trip to Ustengrav, and his rumored status as Dragonborn throughout Whiterun Hold proved beneficial in finding out more about Delphine.

Our host turns out to be one of the last – or perhaps  _the_  last – member of the Blades, the organization that was once the most renowned intelligence service and bodyguard of the Emperor that the Empire had ever known. Despite her order's swift destruction by the Aldmeri Dominion during the Great War, she endured and hid away, striking at the Thalmor when she could in the years since then. It was only with the emergence of the dragon crisis that she's decided to return to the original purpose of the Blades – to be guardians of the Dragonborn and help hunt down all dragons. Given the current state of dragon sightings, that purpose then extends to trying to find a way to stop the crisis at large.

Though Baldur does intend on having us begin the trip back up to High Hrothgar in the morning, the three of us have also agreed that returning to Delphine might be our next best course of action. Though the Greybeards may intend on assisting Baldur's ability to hone his powers, they show no signs of providing a definitive solution to stemming the increasing tide of dragon sightings in recent times.

To that end, Delphine has informed us that we should meet her in Solitude after our trip to the Greybeards to try and find out more about the crisis. While she knows as well as we do that the dragon in Helgen was Alduin, what we don't know is how he's returned so suddenly. Thus, Delphine believes the best course of action would be to investigate the Thalmor Embassy to see if they have any link to Alduin's return. Given that Glorel and I are likely known enemies of the Thalmor within their organization, I do wonder how we'll be able to perform said investigation, but I imagine that she'll work out the minutia by the time we regroup in Solitude. For now though, we must prepare for the journey back up to High Hrothgar.

* * *

**Authors Note:** **Skyrim really has a habit of throwing hell at people who try to walk ten feet in the province, huh? Figured I'd reflect the game's level of chaos and absolute BS in the biggest waste of time the Dragonborn is ever sent on. It gave me the opportunity to think about what Sindri would be like cranky, at the very least.**

**Oh! And let's be honest, if Skyrim were real then the rumor of Baldur absorbing the soul of a dragon in front of a dozen of the city guard would spread like wildfire. Given that fact, I think that in a realistic setting the whole Kynesgrove quest is unnecessary, given both the rumors and the fact Delphine has correspondence with Farengar – who'd very likely have already told her about the whole "we found the Dragonborn" thing.**


	10. Initiation Complete & Diplomatic Immunity

Initiation Complete:

It appears that in return for the troubles that ailed us these past few days and weeks, the divines saw fit to offer us swift passage back to the Throat of the World. Where once we were as unaware as the rest of the residents of Skyrim of the shortcut between Riverwood and Ivarstead, Delphine was kind enough to inform us of its location after listening to her. While the shortcut was underground and in no way fit for commercial travel, it sufficed for our purposes, and we shaved off what very likely would've been another week's detour around the base of the mountain. After we completed the rest of the march aside from the cave shortcut, Baldur informed us that he'd like us to stay behind in Ivarstead while he was delivered the horn. It was an odd request, but once he enlightened us to the fact the Greybeard's initiation ritual involved them speaking to them with none of their power held back, we agreed with the wisdom of his recommendation. I much prefer having all my limbs intact, thank you very much.

If the slight reprieve from constant travel wasn't a chance for the two of us to rest and relax, it at least bought me enough time to digest what I thought of the ancient orders we'd been encountering. Granted, I only began writing down my thoughts after the Greybeards' deafening initiation of Baldur was completed earlier this afternoon, but I digress. Both the Blades and the Greybeards, while diametrically opposed in terms of how they handle conflict – one with prayer, the other with armed conflict and espionage – both possessed their merits in how they assisted Baldur, and by extension all of us, on our journey.

The Greybeards have offered Baldur wisdom and words of power to help him hone his divine gift but exhibit the same isolationist attitude Vyrthur does. Though they find it their duty to guide and train the Dragonborn, they'd sooner die than take direct involvement in the dragon crisis. Granted, it's against their religious beliefs to use their Thu'um in anything but self-defense, but they don't seem to even have a care in the world regarding the prospect of everything they know being destroyed.

In some ways, Delphine doesn't fare much better in morality. All three of us understand that Delphine, for all her desire to help Baldur end the dragon threat, finds the conflict as more of a conveniently newfound purpose for her than anything. She'll likely end up trying to make our party as obsessed with dragon hunting as she is in a bid to consolidate the power of the Blades through powerful allies, for whatever good that does her order of one remaining member. Baldur even went so far as to say she'd leap out of this whole mess without a second thought if the Empire repealed the disbandment of her organization. Given her secretiveness and her order's history of espionage, the three of us are inclined to believe she's hardly the paragon she makes herself out to have become since the dragons started showing up. Nevertheless, she provides the best chance at finding a way to stop the threat for good, which is more than the Greybeards can say, devout consultants and trainers of the Dragonborn or not. In the end, the allegiance of the Dragonborn lays with Baldur himself, and time will tell where it lands.

If I had to guess though, I think he leans more in favor of the Greybeards. His affinity for them is much more than the surface-level gifts of power they've bestowed upon him, nor the wisdom they impart concerning his destiny being tied in battle with Alduin. The Greybeards respect him as a man, haven't a single chance of caring about the life he once led, and show just as little likelihood of using him a pawn in their non-existent political games. Delphine on the other hand is too much of a wild card, too likely to try and end up using us, for him to consider her a true ally. Temporary partner, sure, but ally? Never. Baldur himself said that even with the knowledge of her past we have, so much remains shrouded in mystery that there's a high likelihood she only meticulously crafted her story to earn sympathy. It wouldn't be the first time he'd encountered someone with a silver tongue in his life.

But again, she's our best chance in rooting out a solution, so we must at the very least remain on neutral ground with her; which, come to think of it, might be harder to maintain than I'd have once thought.

The three of us had a brief exchange concerning the unseen leader of the Greybeards – Paarthurnax. Even a commoner without the slightest hint of understanding of dragons could tell you that's not a Nord's name, nor a name you'd find among any of the mortal races of Tamriel. Given that dragons seemingly are unable to die permanently unless a Dragonborn is involved, it followed that Paarthurnax is a dragon member of the Greybeards. His name, and the histories in Winterhold's library both imply that Paarthurnax was once the lieutenant of Alduin himself, though he did end up obeying the divines' order to teach mankind how to use the Thu'um and rid themselves of their dragon masters. Given that Delphine is committed to hunting down all dragons, it follows that she'd be none too quick to request us to hunt down the ancient dragon personally if she were to find out he still yet lived. With this sound theory in hand, we resolved not to inform Delphine of our ideas concerning the leader of the monks. The only problem is, given the Blades' prior status as dragon hunters, there's a high likelihood that she already knows that he survived, or at the very least his body was never found. Only time itself will tell if she's aware and willing to act on that knowledge or not, not any of our group.

Once Baldur returns from High Hrothgar in what I assume will be a day's time, we'll be off to Solitude once again. Our well-justified concerns about Delphine are something that we can certainly keep from showing long enough to have her help us on our quest, not that we have much choice in the matter. We earn Delphine's scorn, and we lose our best chance at attaining a lead on the Thalmor's potential involvement with the dragons' return.

Casting aside my concerns about Delphine though, there's at least one positive I've been able to take from my day spent walking and scribing my thoughts down. Ivarstead being the farming town it is has no shortage of foodstuffs to offer, and as such I made the most of what coin Balgruuf bestowed upon us a while ago. I managed to collect a fine assortment of wines, breads, and even some cheeses during my short shopping spree in the market stalls, and if nothing else I'll be able to spend the rest of the evening quietly enjoying Glorel's company. Now all that's left to do is figure out how to invite her on an outing without having her tear out my throat for waking her up. I'm sure I'll come up with something.

* * *

Diplomatic Immunity:

Even with the weather firmly on our side and the wind at our backs, we made impressive time to Solitude, all things considered. What should've taken along the lines of a week and a half – even with the fair weather – we shaved down to a simple four days' journey from the slopes of the Throat of the World to Solitude's most popular inn, and for that I'm grateful. I'm also grateful that our mission, while not entirely as successful as we would've hoped, bore considerable fruit in terms of a possible lead for us to follow.

When we arrived in the inn Delphine instructed us to meet her at, it couldn't have been more than a minute before she found us among the crowd. Not that spotting a Mer with snow white skin is a particularly challenging task, but still, her choosing to endure the rowdy Nords' drunken stupor to make sure she'd notice our arrival, instead of joining in herself to drown out the noise, was a testament to her duty if nothing else. As was expected, Glorel and I were told to hang back and trail behind Baldur when he proceeded on his undercover mission to the Thalmor Embassy, seeing as we're both considered active enemies of the Thalmor because of Ancano's meddling. I don't think I'll ever figure out for certain how Delphine created a forgery capable of passing by Thalmor security, but I have a few ideas given her spy background.

After Baldur was done passing off his gear to a Bosmer inside-agent of Delphine's, as well as after he was done sassing us about our past encounters with the Thalmor not being very covert, he was carted off in a noble's wagon while we trailed behind a respectable distance on foot. I will admit, I wasn't as concerned with the potential conflict with the Thalmor as I was relieved that Delphine was going to wait for us back in Riverwood. The less time I need to spend with her analytical gaze on me, the better. I left the Chantry in part to escape that sort of thing, not endure it with another person's pair of eyes.

In the few short hours that followed, though Baldur didn't give us specifics beyond needing to kiss up to nobles and quietly kill a few Thalmor, he did end up retrieving whatever information the Embassy contained concerning the dragons. It was underwhelming, to say the least, though interesting reading all the same. The Thalmor are as dumbfounded concerning the dragons as the rest of Skyrim, so much so that they're unaware that the dragon that attacked Helgen was indeed Alduin himself. What was interesting – though unsurprising – was the fact the organization planned on not helping to end the crisis, but to keep as far out of the issue as possible. In their eyes, even if the dragons attacked them, the damage they'd have already done to the Empire's forces here would only serve to weaken the Empire more than it would them. Given the likelihood that the Aldmeri Dominion plans on destroying the Empire wholesale someday, it isn't a surprise they're all to eager to sit back and watch the province burn.

Other than that small dossier on the dragons, Baldur did manage to find some documents of a member of the Blades called Esbern. By the contents of the dossier, the Thalmor are convinced that either he – due to his knowledge of dragonlore – or the Blades at large are responsible for the reemergence of the dragons. Granted, we already know the Blades have nothing to do with the crisis, but the fact the Thalmor seem convinced he's privy to knowledge no one else possesses is enough for us to take their suspicions to heart. Whether or not Esbern is the man the Thalmor believe he is regarding having useful information about the dragons' return remains to be seen though. With any luck, we'll be finished with wandering aimlessly around for a solution to the crisis when we find him, or at least soon after.

As much as I'm sure Delphine would like us to report back to her as quickly as possible, the Thalmor have likely already deployed a force to hunt down Esbern, and we can't afford to stop in Riverwood if we want to reach him before they do. If nothing else, rescuing him will earn us one more ally (as well as more of Delphine's trust) and another person who appreciates lore the way I do. Skyrim's mages may call me a hero first and foremost, but there's a reason my family name is Lorebinder, and I intend to honor our family's dedication to knowledge. Granted, our primary objective is to find Esbern to solve the dragon crisis, but the potential to save ancient knowledge is certainly a bonus to me. Until then, we have a lot of ground to cover and very little time to find Esbern before the Thalmor do.

* * *

**Authors Note:** **As with many of Bethesda's design decisions, I found the need to report back to Delphine about the dossier a bit redundant. Does the player character not know how to read? Come on Bethesda, anyone in the Dragonborn's situation would be able to put two and two together about Esbern, right? Anywho, don't worry, Sindri and Glorel's time in the sun will return in due time. Just gotta… finish crawling through the slog that is the first and second arc of the main quest… oh boy.**


	11. A Cornered Rat & Alduin's Wall

A Cornered Rat:

While Baldur did inform us prior to our swift arrival in Riften that the city had a reputation for ne'er-do-wells and thievery, what I didn't expect was the fact we had to involve ourselves with the criminals. While the Thalmor conveniently omitted who their inside source was in Riften that provided them Esbern's location, the three of us needed to find our way to the loremaster our own way. What would've been an insurmountable task given the vast expanse of the city as well as its underground sewer complex was thankfully shaved down to some "bartering" with the sleeziest swindler of a Nord I've ever seen named Brynjolf. Even with Baldur's silver tongue and reputation in the seedier parts of society, it still took hefty sum of gold before we were told the location of a peculiarly paranoid old man in the Ratway's deepest sewers. The most insulting part of it all wasn't the distortion though, but the fact the bastard had the  _gall_  to proclaim he was selling "Falmer Blood Elixir" to the crowds in Riften mere moments after we left. As if pretending he was selling the blood of my people's warped relatives wasn't bad enough, it took Glorel holding me back for me not to kill the man once he claimed the Elixir was the end-all-be-all of miracles alchemy could offer. I knew he was simply a greed-filled shell of a man looking for profit, but the insult to the Snow Elves still stung all the same. At least I found solace knowing we had the information we needed – that, and the possibility of releasing all my anger on whatever damned Thalmor we met along the way.

And there was plenty of Thalmor there, to be sure. Though I'm sure I should harbor some regret at using more of the Staff of Magnus' force than was necessary fighting our way through the agents, but given Brynjolf's earlier sales pitch, I wasn't quite inclined to care. If people like Brynjolf can stay out in the open extorting those not wise enough to steer clear of him, I think I can exhibit some unnecessary force against the Thalmor. Judging by the fervor Glorel was fighting the Thalmor with as well, I imagine the experience was a form of catharsis for us both.

When we finally reached our destination – a none-too-suspicious looking stronghold of a door with no less than twenty locks and security bars – we were greeted by Esbern. I say greeted, though in truth I could more accurately describe the first encounter as a shooing of us off his doorstep than anything. It took some convincing and Baldur telling Esbern he's Dragonborn, but we did manage to finally get him to open the door. That is, after several dozen fumbling seconds of him unlocking his myriad of security measures.

I don't quite know what I expected of an idiosyncratic loremaster in his seventies, but for some reason his borderline madness was oddly charming. In a way, he was a sort of reflection on what I imagine Vyrthur thought of me when I left the Chantry. Harmless in intent, but unique in his self-expression among his more composed peers. Exactly the sort of person you'd expect to encounter after several decades of hiding in the slums of a sewer system Riften called the Ratway.

My unimportant observations aside, it appears the dossier Baldur retrieved from the Embassy was more important than we'd realized. Though we knew that a loremaster is a position of high importance in any organization, what we didn't know is how true the Thalmor's suspicion was of Esbern knowing much about the dragons. It took both my own and Esbern filling our bags to the brim to take with us everything he deemed essential in assisting the Dragonborn to end the dragon crisis. In the short time we were readying to leave, more of the Thalmor appeared on the path we came from, and we learned exactly why the organization sent what felt like an unnecessary number of agents to hunt down Esbern. Not only did they omit their source in their dossier on Esbern, but they also declined to mention that his knowledge of magic was something comparable to that of Elven mages twice his age. Though he casted no spells I haven't performed myself, it was nonetheless impressive to see a man – let alone a Nord – exhibit such a mastery of all the schools of magic.

On our way out, though he did open up in terms of the history of the Blades (to my joy), he did keep his lips tightly sealed about his findings about the dragons. Not that I blame him. It's not every day you're found by both a diverse trio of allies from across Tamriel as well as the Thalmor you'd been hiding from for decades, so it's understandable he'd like to see Delphine before composing any kind of plan with a party of strangers. Thankfully, the battle out of the Ratway wasn't noted by anyone on the surface, and our journey back to Riverwood was only slowed by our need to rest and procure some supplies in Ivarstead.

Once Delphine and Esbern were reunited earlier this morning was when the real revelations began pouring out. Not only had Esbern discerned by rumor alone that the dragon responsible for bringing life back into the long-dead dragons was Alduin, but he'd also figured out the location of the long-lost Sky Haven Temple – the headquarters of the ancient Blades. More than that, Sky Haven Temple is the resting site of Alduin's Wall, which holds the most complete set of prophecies in Tamriel, the most important of which being the Prophecy of the Dragonborn.

With that in mind, we plan on setting out west to the crags of the Reach tomorrow, where Esbern's convinced the temple is located. Granted, the rocky terrain is going to make travel quite the nuisance alongside the many natives of the Reach that're likely hiding nearby the temple, but with five well-trained fighters there, I've no doubt we'll be able to make the journey safely. In all honesty, I'd be more concerned if the natives managed to harm any of us. If a few dozen men and women wearing fur armor and wielding sharp sticks instead of swords could harm us, I'm not sure if we'd even be worthy of stopping Alduin. I almost feel bad for the natives. They're simply camping out in the wrong place at the wrong time and are going to have to fight the Dragonborn, the wielder of the Staff of Magnus, a renowned Companion, and two members of the Blades over what is for all intents and purposes their property. Stendarr have mercy on their souls.

* * *

Alduin's Wall:

Despite our plan to travel in greater numbers being the safest way to make our way to Sky Haven Temple, by the time the three of us woke up, the Blades were already long gone. They left hours ahead of us to help clear out the natives' camp before we arrived, much to my surprise. While I hardly think of them as fools, I think that one's eagerness to reach ancient historical sites – no matter how important – needs to be very wisely tempered sometimes.

Fortunately, their eagerness to see the mission completed wasn't their downfall. By the time we arrived, the camp was already cleared. While Esbern distracted the natives with a myriad of elemental atronachs, Delphine stealthily put their foes to the blade – evidently one of the oldest tricks in the Blades' book, according to Esbern. It makes me wonder if the Blades more often played the role of bodyguards or spies and assassins for the Emperor in their prime.

Regardless, the natives' camp was clear and our journey to the ancient ruins was only slowed by a pair of dragons unfortunate enough to pick a fight with some of the best dragon hunters in history. If Delphine's claims of the Blades being proficient dragon hunters wasn't to be taken seriously before, the discipline the pair of them exhibited in the battle was proof enough. Granted, that isn't to say the fight was easy, even with the Dragonborn and the Blades on our side, but it proceeded more smoothly than our encounter with the dragon at Ustengrav, that's for sure.

After that brief fight with our uncomfortably frequent foes, we finally made it into Sky Haven Temple – or rather, the hidden entrance to it. Even with my novice understanding of architecture, it was clear that the place was made with every stone serving its role perfectly, and every trap that was placed was installed with the Dragonborn in mind. For instance, the first trap's puzzle needed to be solved by recognizing the symbol of the Dragonborn, something that the ancient Blades would naturally assume anyone with the dragon blood could identify. Some were more dangerous than others obviously, with the potential danger of the traps varying from impalement to a withdrawn stone bridge simply inconveniencing one's path to the temple. I imagine that without Esbern there with his knowledge of the Blades' Akaviri origins that we would've had a more challenging time getting through, but it hardly would've been impossible given our trio's skillsets.

What the Akaviri lacked in terms of impressive traps they more than made up for once we beheld the entrance to the temple, though. A nigh-perfectly carved sculpture blocked the stairwell into the temple, and a just as impressive blood seal was the only way into the place. Given the focus of Sky Haven Temple on preserving the Dragonborn prophecy, it wasn't long before Baldur's blood was offered to trigger the ancient mechanism that opened the way into the temple. If I wasn't as well versed in history as I was, then I daresay the mechanism would've been impressive enough to be confused for Dwemer in origin, if not for the blood seal used to trigger it. The Dwemer were many things, but users of blood magic to authorize passage into their sites of importance they were not.

Baldur was, fittingly, the first to enter the nearly pitch-black Temple, the rest of us following shortly thereafter to light whatever braziers he'd missed on the way up. If the architecture outside of the temple impressed me, then the sheer size and detail of Alduin's Wall encapsulated me like a siren's song. It took up more space than some houses and was just as high as them, its history rich and almost unsettlingly accurate. Despite it having been made long before even Talos' birth, it depicted some of the greatest events Tamriel had ever known perfectly.

The rise and fall of the Dragon Cult, the Dwemer's disappearance after their long war with the Chimer, the Oblivion Crisis, the list goes on. The fact this wall was forgotten when it was erected as a warning of sorts to the future would likely have moved even the hardiest of Nords' hearts if they were to see it. It's a damn shame, that's for sure. So much destruction and devastation over the eras, all depicted with absolute clarity by the Empire's ancestors, and yet no one took heed of the warnings of the past.

I forget how long Esbern and I were lost marveling at the wall, but Delphine stopped humoring our back-and-forth trade of lore compared to what the wall had carved into it once we reached the segment relating to the Last Dragonborn. According to what the Akaviri foresaw, the Last Dragonborn would tear down Alduin from the sky with his Thu'um, using the same shout the legendary fighters of the past used to defeat him millennia ago.

The only problem was, he have no idea what that shout is even called, let alone the words of power within it. Thus, Glorel and I recommended contacting the Greybeards, given their knowledge of the Thu'um and many of its shouts, and the Blades reluctantly agreed. I imagine that we could've ended our quest right then and there and parted on good terms, but Delphine saw the high spirits of the moment as an opportunity to lay her cards on the table. She asked us a favor; that if we found any potential recruits for her organization that we should send them her way. As if being subtly turned into glorified recruiters for her purposes wasn't enough, it appeared that our earlier anticipation of Delphine remembering Paarthurnax proved to be correct. She – and Esbern, to my surprise – asked us to kill Paarthurnax should we ever find him, otherwise their oaths will forbid them in helping Baldur further.

Though we said our goodbyes in as friendly a manner as we could, I think it's obvious that our time collaborating with the Blades has come to an end. All three of us are on the same page concerning their organization's tendency to lean on manipulative tactics instead of trust to fulfill their own goals, and as such we've no intent of continuing our alliance with them. Not only that, but we all have our own reasons as to why killing Paarthurnax should not be a prerequisite for the Blades' continued assistance. Glorel sees killing an obviously peaceful dragon – given he hasn't attacked anyone in millennia and is leader of the Greybeards – as an honorless act. To me, holding Paarthurnax accountable for what he did so long ago under Alduin's tyranny would be like holding some of the ancient Snow Elves in the Chantry accountable for the Night of Tears. For Baldur though, the request to kill someone due to their past hit home. To him, it's hypocrisy of the highest order, Delphine asking for him to kill an innocent man because of his past actions, while having done just as terrible acts in his own life as an assassin, because it's perceived as "justice" in her eyes.

It's a damn shame too, because Esbern seems less self-righteous with the "need" to kill Paarthurnax, unlike Delphine, and more reluctantly obedient of his ancient oaths to the Blades. There's so much more I imagine I could've learned from Esbern, being so well-versed in history, but they've made their choice, and we have ours. Whatever happens to the Blades from here on out is up to them decide – right now, we have a mountain to climb and a world to save.

* * *

**Authors Note:** **Finally! The worst of the busywork segment of the main quest is complete! Now the focus is gonna finally be back on our heroic trio, and Glorel and Sindri will finally be back in more of the spotlight than they have been – at least so far as fighting is concerned. If you know anything about Skyrim's main quest, you know Sindri's gonna have one hell of a time in the search for Dragonrend.**


	12. The Throat of the World & Elder Knowledge

The Throat of the World:

Given that Baldur's ascended the thousands of steps to High Hrothgar multiple times now, I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised when he returned earlier this evening. After all, we did make it to Ivarstead in the morning, and we weren't exactly fatigued given we set up camp only about an hour's march from the town yesterday. Then again, it's not out of the question he'd simply grown tired of making the climb normally and used that whirlwind sprint shout of his to make it there and back in record time. Whatever the case, he made it from the base of the mountain to High Hrothgar to the summit in less than a day, and came back with quite the tale to tell.

His journey to find out Dragonrend's words of power began poorly, to say the least. When he approached Arngeir about the shout, he wasn't met with the helpful information he hoped for. Instead, Arngeir began questioning Baldur about where he'd heard of that "forbidden shout," and then an impromptu lecture about why he shouldn't listen to the Blades, the old master claiming they'd always served to lead the Dragonborn astray. Given their track record with our small group, I'm inclined to believe his indignation was justified. Regardless, once Baldur explained he shared no trust with the Blades after our journey to their temple, Arngeir was at least more open about the shout.

Unfortunately, thanks to their code of worship the Greybeards declined to remember Dragonrend's words of power. The shout was always an unnatural one, created as a weapon long ago, and one the Greybeards had no use for in their peaceful worship of the sky. With Baldur still pressing for knowledge of the shout though, Arngeir did submit to helping him out one more time. They provided him a shout to clear the skies of the ever-present icy winds that prevented travel to the summit, so that he could reach Paarthurnax and see what he knew of the shout.

To no one's surprise, Baldur confirmed of us that Paarthurnax is indeed a dragon – an extremely wise and peaceful one at that, with a tendency to indulge in copious amounts of philosophical speech. It took some time and debate, but eventually Baldur was able to inquire into what the elder master knew of Dragonrend. Paarthurnax explained that he didn't know it either; that, since Dragonrend was made as a weapon to tear dragons out of the sky to begin with, their minds could not even comprehend the shout's concepts.

At this point in the tale I'm sure Baldur was debating whether to skip his recollection of Paarthurnax's next historical lecture or not, but I managed to pry it out of him. Seeing as we're in no hurry to get moving again until tomorrow, I figured we'd have enough time for him to give us the longer version of the rest of his trip on the mountain. I'm glad I convinced him to tell us the unabridged version too, because it provided me some amazing grains of knowledge of the past, as well as a tie-in to finding Dragonrend's words of power.

Baldur was told by Paarthurnax that Alduin wasn't hiding or licking his wounds all these years, but rather, he was cast forward in time by the ancient heroes who fought against his cult. In an effort to be rid of him permanently, they used an Elder Scroll to banish Alduin from Skyrim, and for the rest of their lives it appeared to have worked. The unintended consequence of their actions though was that despite them achieving peace for their time, they'd only postponed needing to deal with Alduin far enough that none of them would live to see the day he returned.

Though those ancient souls may have thought themselves victorious, Paarthurnax knew better. He waited for centuries and millennia for Alduin to reappear where he'd been banished from at the summit, only ever interacting with the outside world via the Greybeards, and eventually adopting their way of life. When Alduin returned, Paarthurnax had tried to stop his brother, but all he managed to do was earn many wounds and broken bones he still bears the scars of to this day, according to Baldur. As if him teaching mankind the Thu'um and not attacking anyone in millennia wasn't proof enough of his peaceful nature, then I believe his efforts to stop Alduin before this crisis ever started is more than enough to erase any remaining doubts.

Paarthurnax instructed Baldur to retrieve the Elder Scroll, so that he'd be able to look into the the "time-wound" left by the ancient heroes' use of the scroll, so that he could witness – and thereby learn - Dragonrend from the source. As with many of our quest's objectives though, there was a catch. Since Paarthurnax has been as isolated as the Greybeards concerning the world for the past few eras, he had no clue where to find the scroll. Luckily for us, I know one college with a knack for finding ancient artifacts that could help show us the way. Though I'm sure Baldur and Glorel aren't going to be ecstatic when I tell them we need to head north into Winterhold, it's our best shot at finding the Elder Scroll. Though it's likely retrieving it won't involve fighting another Dragon Priest, I imagine that getting the scroll's going to involve a lot more combat than we've been experiencing these past few weeks.

* * *

Elder Knowledge:

When I was told by Urag our best lead on the location of an Elder Scroll was a man located in the frozen wastes near the Sea of Ghosts, I hardly expected Septimus Signus to be bordering on insane when we found him. I knew that the man tended to lean on over-the-top metaphors in his papers and had chosen a rather unusual location for a research outpost of his, but still. It took some time for us to find his outpost without falling into the freezing water around it, and even more for him to lapse back and forth from lucid to insane again, but we eventually gained what we needed from him. As much as I regretted it, we found out the Elder Scroll we were looking for was in the ruins of the race that'd disappeared from Nirn millennia ago and enslaved my people – the Dwemer. More specifically, located in the underground hold-sized cavern known as Blackreach.

We also learned his madness stemmed from his encounters with Hermaeus Mora, which only led us all to the reasonable choice of never returning to his outpost again so that we could avoid the Daedric Prince at all costs – as if the isolated location wasn't enough to dissuade us from returning.

The trip to the nearest Dwemer city that would provide us access to Blackreach didn't take long, though I wish it had. Even with all we'd had to do over the course of the crisis thus far, I hardly looked forward to witnessing the depravity of the devolved and enslaved kin of my people firsthand. What's more, I knew that not only would I likely have to fight and kill the Betrayed, but the Dwemer automata that likely remained in those damned ruins too. I sorely wish I wasn't so well informed about the past where that mission was concerned. Maybe if I were born into any other race it'd be intriguing to investigate the Dwemer ruins, but not when all that runs through your head the whole time is the systematic destruction of your kin's souls by another race of Mer.

I will confess I grew nauseous all too quickly when I first saw a member of the Betrayed. The automata the Dwemer left behind were faceless, non-human masses of metal and soul gems, so I could tolerate their presence enough to blow them to pieces. No, even though I'd read of the Dwemer's betrayal of so many of our people, and what became of them according to the Knight-Paladins' encounters with them, nothing could prepare you for seeing them yourself. Thin skin, hunched backs, eyes so ruined by the Dwemer's poisoned foods that they no longer existed in their sockets, and a battle cry that sounded more like a choked roar than anything you'd think a once-proud Snow Elf could make. Seeing the depraved state of existence the Betrayed lived in, coupled with the fact they were trying to kill me, was disturbing to say the least.

It was only when Glorel had to stop me from stumbling off a ledge that would've killed me that they noticed how pale I was – paler than what my white skin normally was, anyway. I told her my concerns and why exactly I looked about two steps away from falling unconscious, and we changed our tactics accordingly. All three of us would work together to take out the beasts and Dwemer automata that we encountered, but Baldur would scout ahead every so often and deal with whatever Betrayed he encountered. The process extended our trek through city and Blackreach by a few days, but we at least made it safely and without me needing to kill my own kind. Even if they were monstrous versions of their former selves, they were still Snow Elves, and some of their eldest I could've sworn were living remnants of the past like Vyrthur and Gelebor judging by the magic Baldur described them wielding. As such, I wouldn't be caught dead having to live with the knowledge I killed some of the same Snow Elves that might've very well fought side by side some of the Chantry's elders so long ago.

Regardless of my own uneasiness, we eventually made it through both Alftand and Blackreach to the Tower of Mzark, with the Betrayed's appearances becoming less frequent as more formidable automata took their place. The ensuing fighting at least forced me to take my mind off the Betrayed at least, so much so that I could even imagine appreciating Blackreach's beauty in another life. Massive glowing blue fungi, what looked like a ball of flame hovering at the center of the cavern for light, and waterfalls comparable to those on the surface I say would've made the place beautiful in its prime, if not for the fact it was built at the cost of my people's souls. Part of me once mourned the loss of the Dwemer, what with their discoveries that've yet to be replicated, but another now thinks the world is brighter in their absence. Brilliant inventors and natural philosophers or not, they're still the same people whose leaders saw no reason to question the morality of enslaving most of another race. Though I prefer not to hold the leaders of a nation as a representation of their whole culture, I can't help but feel that whatever ideals the Dwemer held – aside from their refusal to worship the divines in favor of logic – are ideals the world is better off without.

Before I could reflect any further, we entered the Tower of Mzark that Septimus had told us about. It housed a hulking beast of a machine the Dwemer had made that, if I had to guess, was used to read the Elder Scrolls without running the risk of being blinded, or at the very least store them securely out of anyone else's hands. We likely wouldn't have been able to access the scroll if not for the Dwemer lexicon Septimus had given us as it proved the key to retrieving the scroll – quite literally. Upon placing it on its pedestal, it was simply a matter of rearranging the panels of the mechanism so that they all aligned with the light trickling in from above via a series of four buttons. Pressing one would unlock another, which brought us closer to unlocking the scroll's casing, and the scroll was in our hands within moments of reaching the mechanism.

Shortly after that, we made our way back to the surface via one of the Dwemer's great lifts, and I finally achieved enough clarity of mind to write down the happenings of these past two weeks. Part of me regrets being so caught up in these last two weeks' events that I ignored my journal, but another thinks it couldn't have been helped. What divines-worshipping Snow Elf can descend into Dwemer ruins, must possibly fight their enslaved kin, and keep a journal all at the same time? I'm lucky I didn't get sick seeing the state the Betrayed are in, and even more lucky that I have people like Glorel that're willing to help me in my times of weakness.

I pray that I'll never see another Falmer again, especially now that I've witnessed firsthand the savage state they live in. It's no wonder Vyrthur has us refer to ourselves as the Snow Elves instead of the Falmer nowadays. To anyone in Skyrim, Falmer means the same as the Betrayed does to us – a term used to describe the monsters so many of our people have become, albeit not by choice.

At least the worst of the ordeal is over now, and we can make the trip back to the Throat of the World in peace, dragon and bandit attacks notwithstanding. It's odd, I find myself fearing the very real possibility of fighting Alduin less than another encounter with the Betrayed now that I've encountered them. Alduin is the embodiment of destruction, sure, but the Betrayed are just such a grim reminder of our past and a twisted reflection of the monsters we were on the Night of Tears. At least with Alduin I have no connection to him nor the dragons, so it's much easier to go about killing them than it is the Betrayed. Regardless, the words of power that may very well spell the beginning of the end of this crisis are within reach, and I'll do my damnedest to focus on the road ahead rather than the past. At least, I will once I'm done ridding myself of the past few days' worries with Glorel. If there's one thing the two of us gladly do for each other, it's be an outlet for one another's bad days, and for that I am eternally grateful.

* * *

**Authors Note:** **Poor Sindri man. You know things are tough when a guy called "Lorebinder" forgets to write for weeks, but I think it's the only suitable reaction for him. Imagine you were a member of a half-destroyed race of people and stumbled across nigh sub-human reflections of your people? It'd be like living a nightmare, I imagine.**


	13. Alduin's Bane & Odahviing

Alduin's Bane:

As if the anticipated battle with Alduin wasn't enough for the three of us to mull over on our journey back to the Throat of the World, the very roads we traveled seemed devoid of life, as if nature itself had taken note of what was to come. Even the most bone-headed Orsimer would be able to tell you that our trip, however swift it may have been, was assuredly an omen from the divines, though we hardly needed it. The last few weeks' crisis has been many things, but something we need an omen to tell we're nearing the end of, it is not.

Regardless, Baldur made the sound decision to have us accompany him to the summit of the mountain for the battle to come. He informed us that Alduin would without a doubt be drawn to the Elder Scroll being read at the time-wound, and although Paarthurnax would be there to fight alongside him, there was no telling if the ancient dragon would suffice. What's more, while Baldur would be reading the Elder Scroll, we'd no idea as to if Alduin would show up before he was done, so it was for the best we erred on the side of caution. Then there was the obvious fact that two extra sets of hands would make our odds of success against the dragon go up tremendously, but even more so where the fate of the world was at stake.

After a short rest at High Hrothgar, we made the short hike up to the summit, and what I saw there I wish I could've recorded in words. The sight of Skyrim in all its beauty from atop the Throat of the World is something words can't adequately describe, despite however many ancient Snow Elf pilgrims tried to do so. The Sea of Ghosts' endless tides clear as day to the north mixing in with the sunset was like the heavens had spilled over. On any other occasion it would've served to calm even the most tumultuous of souls with its beauty, but I imagine its encapsulating view was somewhat corrupted by the dread in the air.

Before I could gaze at the beauty of the world any longer, Paarthurnax landed atop his ancient perch and instructed Baldur on how to read the Elder Scroll safely. It was chilling, to see someone seemingly fade from consciousness but remain upright, their eyes dotting around the same spot we were standing and supposedly seeing into the past as if he was present in the conflicts of old. Paarthurnax assured Glorel and I of the Dragonborn being just fine, and we spent the next few dozen minutes making small talk, for lack of a better term. I'm afraid I can't quite figure out how to describe a causal conversation with a dragon older than the Empire with the words I have at my disposal. What I can say though is that Paarthurnax overwhelmingly deserves the title of leader of the Greybeards, with a level of wisdom I imagine would be the envy of kings, if they cared for philosophy. If nothing else, it was a pleasant distraction that helped me loosen up before we spotted – or rather, heard – Alduin on the horizon.

Alduin had no words to say before the battle began, save for the shout that rained down a hail of fire down from above. While Baldur did emerge from his reading of the scroll in time for Alduin's arrival, it did still take me raising a ward with the Staff of Magnus to save him from Alduin's sudden gout of flame. After that brief exchange, the real battle began. The Dragonborn had succeeded in his task of learning Dragonrend from the source, and it wasn't long before a blue glow ensnared the World Eater, tearing him down from the sky. I don't recall how long the battle lasted, but I do remember in detail how many times we were nearly bombarded by Alduin's Thu'um or snapped in two by his jaws. Alduin's shouts mixed with Paarthurnax's and Baldur's made for a maelstrom of thunder, fire, and frost, all while Glorel and I lent our aid where we could. By the time night fell and Alduin appeared to be losing enough of his strength to be bogged down on the ground for longer periods of time, we knew we would outlast him. If not by the many wounds he'd sustained, then by my leeching of his strength and ability to heal our small party. In fact, despite what fatigue by body felt, I felt confident that I'd bear witness to Alduin's defeat firsthand. That was, until a wall of unrelenting force bowled me and Glorel off the cliffside.

By the grace of the divines I was able to cast landing zone before we met our gruesome end, but even then, the fall was so great that the impact knocked us out cold. It was only this morning when we regrouped with Baldur that we were able to confirm we were victorious, but only partly. Although Baldur and Paarthurnax managed to finish off the battle, Alduin wasn't one to face his end honorably, and he fled to Sovngarde to feast on the souls of the Nords' fallen. While we've succeeded in stemming the tide of dragons being resurrected by Alduin, the fight isn't over yet.

We're headed to Whiterun now, with either one of the most insane or brilliant plans of the Fourth Era. While the only way for a mortal to reach Sovngarde is through the ancient Dragon Cult temple of Skuldafn, there's no way to reach the place without a dragon who knows its location to fly you there. Thus, Paarthurnax – who unfortunately wasn't privy to the construction site of Skuldafn during his time with Alduin – came up with a plan that under any other circumstances would better be classified as suicide. Baldur is to call out the name of Alduin's current right hand – Odahviing – to lure him into a duel of shouts, and in so doing pin him down in Dragonsreach's ancient trap. Then, having proved his greater mastery of the Thu'um as well as having trapped the dragon, the assumption is that Odahviing will be honor-bound to bend to the will of the superior wielder of the Thu'um, and bring us to Skuldafn. If it wasn't a dragon who'd told us of the plan, I'd distance myself as far as possible from whoever came up with the idea, but alas, Paarthurnax would know better than the three of us on how to get a dragon to cooperate.

As if trapping a dragon won't be difficult enough, we still must convince Balgruuf to let us make use of his castle's trap. Hopefully it won't be too difficult, given our Thaneships, but my hopes have been dashed before. Despite the setbacks though, we're still in a much better situation regarding the dragon crisis than before, and the end is very much in sight.

Honestly, I think we've been more than lucky to have emerged from our confrontation with Alduin in as good a shape as we did. Aside from some bruises and cuts that remain, whatever wounds we sustained in battle have long since been healed, either by potion or by spell. As if us stemming the tide of dragons being reborn and coming out of our battle in good health wasn't good enough, there's also the fact Baldur gave me the Elder Scroll for safe-keeping. Given he knows how much I'd appreciate keeping such an artifact in safe hands, and the fact he doesn't have any more use for the scroll, I plan on sending it discreetly to the College of Winterhold for safe storage. Though I imagine Urag would have a plethora of questions about where we retrieved it he'd like to ask me in person, I hope the simple report I've written up will suffice. Sending the scroll away will have to wait until we arrive in Whiterun, but I imagine we'll make short work of the trip.

All things considered, I say we've fared rather well for having fought the World Eater and lived to tell the tale. Now all that's left to do is trap Alduin's right hand, ride to Skuldafn, enter Sovngarde, and defeat a dragon who's been feasting on the souls of the dead. At another point in my life I'd say this is an impossible task, but given how impossible defeating Alduin once was, I believe trapping Odahviing is more than possible for the three of us.

* * *

Odahviing:

I don't know what possessed me to think convincing Balgruuf to let us use his castle to trap a dragon in Whiterun during a civil war would be easy, but we did pull through in the end. While Balgruuf needed some convincing to believe our plan wasn't some poorly crafted joke, he was quick to warm up to the seriousness of our request. He was also just as quick to shoot down the idea of lending some of his city guard to prepare the trap, given how even a moment's vulnerability would spur either the Imperials or the Stormcloaks to invite themselves into the city. At that point, we came to a compromise; that, while Balgruuf didn't need to lend us any assistance, all he had to do was leave us to trap the dragon ourselves. Given I possessed the Staff of Magnus, Baldur could keep the dragon from flying away and attacking the city, and Glorel's a renowned companion, he agreed to our deal.

It took an extra few hours to ready the ancient chains enough to have the trap ready, but we prepared everything we needed all the same. While some extra hands would've come in handy to mitigate the risk to our lives, all we really needed was two people to trigger the chains and one to act as bait. Luckily for us, Baldur could call Odahviing forth as well as be baiting the dragon deep enough into the porch for Glorel and I to spring the trap. I will say it was both mildly amusing and concerning to see Baldur scrambling for the cover of Dragonsreach's pillars, but if anything went terribly wrong I could've used my staff to weaken Odahviing so much he might as well have been imprisoned, I imagine. At any rate, the trap worked perfectly, and it wasn't long before both Balgruuf and his council appeared to marvel at our success.

Even better than everyone emerging unscathed is how Paarthurnax's plan worked perfectly, Odahviing submitting to Baldur as soon as he realized how perfectly ensnared he was. Farengar realized how vulnerable the dragon was too, and I had to dissuade the man from running any "tests" on Odahviing while he's trapped. Despite however much Farengar thinks we could learn from a close-up look at a dragon completely at our mercy, I don't think he'd appreciate being prodded and inspected like livestock. Even with his wings pinned, a swipe of his tail could snap Farengar like a twig, and I didn't plan on losing the Jarl's Court Wizard to stupidity today.

That incident aside, all that's left is waiting for Baldur to give us the go-ahead to release Odahviing from his bondage and fly us to Skuldafn. The Dragonborn's given us a day to rest and restock on whatever supplies we might need, which I can't help but appreciate. While Baldur and Glorel are likely off celebrating trapping a dragon and drinking their fill before what should be our final venture to defeat Alduin, I plan on sending off the Elder Scroll and asking Odahviing a few questions. As much as I look forward to the good night's sleep ahead of me, that doesn't mean I'm going to pass up on what could be one of the most insightful looks into dragon culture any mortal has received in the past few millennia. If Tolfdir and Urag don't already envy my bounty of ancient knowledge, they most assuredly will now.

* * *

**Authors Note:** **Damnit Alduin! Why've you gotta be so rude? All Sindri wanted was to see you defeated, but you've go and blow him away? For shame. But in all honesty, in a serious battle, Alduin would without a doubt try and blow anyone who's stupid enough to think they can duel him on top of a mountain off the cliffside. If the Last Dragonborn figured out he could do it for fun, you bet your butts Alduin would pull out all the stops to try and kill his adversaries the same way. Good thing landing zone exists, eh? Next stop, Skuldafn!**


	14. Skuldafn & Sovngarde

Skuldafn:

If there's one thing Odahviing was right about when we departed from Dragonsreach, it's that I will envy the dragons for the rest of my days for their ability to fly. Not only was the view and freedom Odahviing gave us on his back almost beyond belief, but the weather itself was fair enough to give us a clear view of Whiterun's great plains. Given that the dragons find this freedom in their daily lives with such ease, I imagine that even without the Thu'um they would've been the envy of mortals. It's no wonder the Dwemer tried to unlock the secrets of flight, knowing that birds and dragons alike had already experienced this level of freedom since the beginnings of time. I was almost as impressed with his ability to carry all three of us without much bother as the flight itself, given our combined weight. Given how a dragon's body appears to be nearly all muscle though, I shouldn't have been surprised when a few mortals riding on his back wouldn't be a tipping point for Odahviing.

We made excellent time to no one's surprise, arriving deep in Skyrim's mountain ranges within hours, and landing in Skuldafn mere moments later. Odahviing made it known he'd swear true fealty to Baldur if he were to emerge victorious, and while I would've protested the dragon leaving us stranded, I couldn't blame him given the likelihood he'd be killed because of his betrayal of Alduin. Thus, while Odahviing left and awaited the result of the climactic battle in the afterlife, we were left to traverse the temple. To call the temple impressive would be an understatement by all our accounts, to be sure. Though not as massive as Labyrinthian, Skuldafn more than made up for its lack of size in the detail of its arches and the unimaginable efforts it must've taken to heave the great stones of the place up the mountainside. I imagine that if any architects ever witnessed this place themselves they'd likely spend the rest of their days attempting to figure out how such a magnificent place was created so long ago, but I digress.

Despite the temple's awe-inspiring size and beauty, it was unsurprisingly teeming with the most formidable of the once-cultist Draugr, and what we first thought was only two elder dragons. Given our high spirits and experience with both threats before us, it wasn't long before – despite their numbers – we cut a swathe through their ranks, leaving Baldur a clear space to ensnare the two dragons with his Thu'um. That having been said, the seniority of the dragons' shouts became clear once the ground battle began. They were unable to flee, yes, but they'd spent millennia honing their shouts into a perfect weapon, and it took considerably more time to deal with the pair than we'd hoped, though a particularly strenuous fight it was not. Whether our slow but steady victory was a product of our experience or the dragons' lack of combat in millennia, we did not know, but given our later encounter with another pair I'm inclined to believe the former.

By midday we'd reached the portal to Sovngarde, guarded by no more than two more elder dragons, and a Dragon Priest who boldly announced his name - Nahkriin. He was a very adept user of destruction magic, I'll give him that, but he was nonetheless clearly weaker than Morokei with the Staff of Magnus in terms of sheer power. I will confess though, that if it was just me and Glorel embarking on this mission, the fight might very well have been just as difficult as with Morokei's, given the pair of elder dragons also guarding the place. While I was dueling Nahkriin, Glorel and Baldur were fast at work dealing with the other two elder dragons one-on-one, Glorel buffeting her target with arrows and Baldur making the most of his poisons and Dragonrend. By the time we emerged victorious, we were luckily none the worse for wear, and the portal to Sovngarde was open to us thanks to Nahkriin's staff. While we needed the staff to unlock the portal, I left his mask where he died. I desire no more power than what I already have, and I imagine collecting more masks would only draw a target on my back for anyone with an unhealthy obsession for ancient artifacts and enchantments.

We've since made a point to pause and catch our breath before we enter the Nords' afterlife, which has given me enough time to write down a few final notes before we meet Alduin for what will absolutely be the decisive battle of the crisis. I considered myself lucky to have found Glorel and acceptance in the College of Winterhold not too long ago, and yet here I am now, accompanying the Last Dragonborn on his prophesized quest. It wasn't long ago I'd never so much as seen a Man, let alone become something of a minor hero and Thane to even the most vehemently anti-magic of their number. If only Vyrthur could see me now, I imagine he'd be shocked beyond belief. If not for what I've learned and seen, then the fact I now possess the Staff of Magnus. Though, if we make it out of this battle alive, I hardly plan to return to the Chantry to gloat. Let Vyrthur have his peace, and I'll make the most of mine traveling Tamriel, so long as the divines have nothing more planned for me in terms of grand battles and prophecies.

I was thinking of sending a prayer to the divines to watch over us when we enter the portal, but given we're about to enter their realm, I imagine they already will be.

* * *

Sovngarde:

When we arrived in Sovngarde, I knew only as much as Glorel had told me of the place, which admittedly wasn't much. She described the place from what she'd heard as an endless land of rolling hills and forests ripe with game, with the Hall of Valor's imposing visage in the distance a reward for those souls strong enough to traverse the long path there. For those who made it, they'd be rewarded with endless feasts, drinking contests, tests of combat prowess, and general merriment galore – a Nord's paradise.

What I saw when we arrived hardly resembled that beautiful land Glorel had heard of however. Alduin had wove a soul-eating and light-consuming mist around the forest that led to the Hall of Valor, feasting on the bounty of souls that fell in the civil war and obscuring the landscape in a thick grey blanket. Thanks to Baldur's clear skies shout though, we were able to make our way through the mist and reach the Hall of Valor either unnoticed or ignored by Alduin as he regained his strength.

Despite the thick mist that obscured our view of Sovngarde within the entryway and the forest, the Hall of Valor's brilliant glow served to grant us sight when we emerged from the soul-snare. For the first time, I felt like Sovngarde was much more than simply an uncharted land. I saw Magnus – usually so far out of reach – nearly encompass a third of Sovngarde's sky, and I felt a power beyond that which I'd ever experienced. Both myself and the staff seemed empowered, and I can only imagine that was either divine blessing or the staff's closeness to Aetherius bringing forth new power to the artifact.

Whatever the case, as we were still making our way to the hall, I was sure to make a mental note of what else encompassed the sky – the constellations of the Mage, the Warrior, and the Thief. It struck me as fitting in a way, for our small party to align so well with the constellations perfectly. It's almost as if the Dragonborn was destined to have two fitting companions, born under complimentary constellations to their own, but whether this was coincidence or the divines' plan, I doubt I will ever know. What I do know though is that if my firsthand experience in Sovngarde taught me anything, it's that my assumption of every culture possessing some validity in their beliefs is more than true. I don't believe if we were to ever tell anyone this that they would believe us, but it's at least confirmation for myself and Glorel that our curiosity of other cultures is far from foolish.

As if the revelations I'd been experiencing weren't enough thus far, Tsun had another surprise for us. The God of Trials told all three of us that we had a place in Sovngarde, that despite my own and Glorel's status as Mer that Sovngarde is a place for all honorable souls. Whether you are Dragonborn, a member of the Companions, a practitioner of magic, or a grunt in the civil war, so long as the divines see you worthy you'll have a place in Shor's Hall according to him. Though we both gave our thanks and certainly appreciated the knowledge, I think I speak for Glorel and myself when I say we both look forward to our faith's afterlives with greater fervor than for Sovngarde. For Baldur though, it's clear that he more than looks forward to the day he can return to Sovngarde – or any afterlife for that matter – now that he knows he's in the divines' good graces.

After a brief display of our talents in a duel against Tsun – a claim I know sounds like it'd come out of the mouth of a drunk, I know – we were permitted cross the whalebone bridge to the city-sized hall. Within the Hall of Valor was all the festivity Glorel had described, as well as the three ancient heroes Baldur had seen through the Elder Scroll. They informed us of the nature of the mist, and that together with the Dragonborn they could dispel it enough to force Alduin to confront us, once and for all. We only spent a fleeting moment in the hall, but I more than understood why the Nords idolized the place. That said, I still looked forward to our quick exit after one of the heroes of Sovngarde gave me a death glare and started making his way through the crowd. Though I imagine the divines would never let a living man's blood be spilt in the afterlife when they were sent on a quest like the one we were on, I still feared that brute of a man's glare for one simple reason.

That man was none other than Ysgramor himself, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out what was running through his head when he saw a Snow Elf in Sovngarde. The man had barely escaped Saarthal on the Night of Tears and spent the rest of his days exacting his vengeance upon my people, and to see one of his sworn enemies in Shor's Hall? I can't imagine either of us would've left that confrontation none the worse for wear. If nothing else, it gave me another reason to look forward to my own people's afterlife.

I quickly shook off the incident as best I could, taking solace in the fact no one seemed to have noticed Ysgramor, and thus wouldn't be questioning me later about why I'd broken out into a brief cold sweat. Besides, Baldur and the three heroes were too busy at work clearing the forest with their combined Thu'um of Alduin's mist to care, and Glorel was obviously readying herself to let out a war cry like none she'd ever unleashed before. At that point, I came to the sound conclusion that Sovngarde tended to amplify the very core of anyone who traversed the place – living or dead.

I wasn't left to my musings for long though, and Alduin made his final approach, drawing the world-spanning mist in like a fishing net for all the power the souls ensnared would provide him. Despite him having been on the back foot and our number having doubled, his blood red eyes never failed to give us pause and Alduin the opportunity for bring forth his hail of fire once again. Despite that, with three legends and three legends-in-the-making combining blade, Thu'um, and spell to destroy the World Eater, it wasn't long before Alduin was no more. While words would fail to describe the battle, I will say this. That if you could imagine the force of an avalanche coalesced into the strength of a single man, you'd still be leagues away from being able to fathom the scale of the last battle against the World Eater.

From across the whalebone bridge we could hear the triumphant cheers of the heroes that'd not been permitted to help by Shor, and Tsun was the first to congratulate us up close – no surprise, given we'd just overcome the greatest trials any mortals could be given right in front of the God of Trials. Where he bestowed upon Baldur a shout that would summon forth the three ancient heroes that'd helped us, Tsun granted Glorel and I something equally valuable. Where magic might once have been a threat to our souls where necromancy or Daedric Princes were concerned, we have been blessed with our very souls being bolstered against all magics that would serve to undo their purity. Whether it be one of the many soul-claiming "gifts" of the Daedra or an enthralling curse, neither will ever be able to claim our souls, and for that I am eternally grateful. Also, while it wasn't entirely necessary, the added benefit of being immune to disease is quite the bonus of our pure souls. Now we only need to fear a vampire or werewolf's infectious touch as much as a minor cold, which always helps where the Daedra's chosen are concerned.

Having finished granting us our divine blessings, Tsun then hastened our journey back to Skyrim by quite literally shouting us back to the land of the living. A moment of weightlessness and adjusting to our presence in a snow flurry later, we were standing atop the Throat of the World's summit again, with no less than at least two dozen dragons present watching us. Needless to say, we were immediately on edge, and I would've raised a ward in our defense if not for Glorel pointing out Paarthurnax sitting peacefully among them.

It appeared that in our absence, not only had Odahviing noticed that Alduin's reign was reaching its end, but so too did many of Alduin's followers realize that their former lord's Thu'um was no longer uncontested. As they echoed one another's praises of the Dragonborn's power, Paarthurnax and Odahviing made their presence known once more. Odahviing made good on his promise, and now is willing to serve Baldur whenever he needs aid, so long as he could reach Baldur where he calls from, that is. Paarthurnax expressed how he'd never felt more alive in when Alduin was defeated, and while he will not quite celebrate the death of his once-brother, he will relish in spreading his own philosophy of peacefully honing one's Thu'um with the rest of dragonkind. Whether they will heed his words or not remains to be seen, but I've no doubt that Paarthurnax will turn many of Alduin's followers to a less destructive way of life.

Once the cluster of dragons had either flown off to their own lairs or followed Paarthurnax off who knows where, our final descent for the foreseeable future began. Despite it being night and abominably cold in Glorel's opinion, we didn't go far before Baldur realized what it meant to have a dragon's loyalty. While Odahviing made a point to express he wasn't to be our means of transport constantly, he didn't refuse to aid us in the aftermath of our victory, and we made it back to Whiterun by sunrise.

We were the first to spread the news of Alduin's defeat, and the ensuing festivities have worn on throughout the day, much to Baldur and Glorel's amusement – I've even spotted Skjor letting down his gruff exterior in the wake of our victory. In fact, the merriment was so infectious that even the most opposed great families concerning the civil war in Whiterun have banded together in song and recognition of what we've done. As if the praise of Sovngarde's heroes and the rewards of the divines wasn't enough, Balgruuf made a point to give us as much coin we could carry, as well as grant us each property in his city, before inviting us to a grand celebration of our victory. While I don't think Glorel and I will settle down in Whiterun, however nice a city it may be, I think it'll be good to have a place to call our own. There's still much of Tamriel both of us would like to see before we even consider settling down, I think. Besides, we both enjoy the nomadic lifestyle for all the adventure and learning opportunities it brings, so why chain ourselves down?

Thoughts about the future and our new home aside, I plan on letting go of moderation for once and drown away the night with some mead. If saving the world isn't an occasion to join in on some indulgence with my loved one and close friend, I don't know what is. With any luck, I'll still be sober enough by the end of the night to guide us through the city to our new home, but I won't hold my breath. If there's one thing Glorel's taught me from her time with the Companions, it's that once you embrace the celebrations of a great victory, you aren't going home anywhere close to clear-headed.

* * *

**Authors Note:** **And so ends the main questline arc! Man, towards the end I had to really think hard about how not to have Sindri and Glorel bombastically overshadowed by Baldur. Like, I spent a solid hour thinking about what their reward could be but then once I started thinking about where they're headed next… it's probably for the best their souls are incorruptible. At any rate, I look forward to the next arc, and I hope you do too! Dawnguard's gonna be a doozy, given the whole arc is prophesized by Vyrthur in canon, and… well, to say things are different in this fic would be an understatement.**

**Just a fair warning though; Dawnguard is gonna be a** _**lot** _ **shorter than its in-game counterpart. Partly because I suck, partly because giving the super-pious Sindri and Glorel a reason to make friends with a vampire would be hell, and partly because 90% of the fumbling around in that questline is because no one knows what Auri-El's Bow is or where it's located.**

**TL;DR: There's gonna be some, shall we say… narrative budget cuts in Dawnguard, and the Story of Sindri Lorebinder will be coming to it's end, but that's for another author's note!**


	15. Parting Ways & Dawnguard

Parting Ways:

I didn't know how long I'd expect peace to last in the wake of our triumph, but I at least desired more than a week to familiarize myself with what life in Whiterun would be like if we ever settled down. After that, I looked forward to the return of Glorel and I traveling together across Tamriel as a sort of well-earned return to our original plan for the province. However much we desired such a peaceful life of seeing what the world had to offer though, it wasn't long before we were forced to postpone those plans for a while longer yet.

Just yesterday Baldur was attacked by two cultists wearing distinctly Morrowind garbs, and more importantly, they were proclaiming that Baldur was the false dragonborn in favor of their own lord – Miraak. Thankfully, the Dragonborn was more than a match for two crazed cultists, but the attempt on his life – outside his own house no less – was cause for us to rise to the occasion once again. If there's one thing we can be relied on for its coming to the aid of those who need it, and given our close friend's attempt on his life, it was only fitting that we would assist him.

Baldur's assailants carried with them a note, presumably from their cult's leadership, that revealed their origins in Solstheim, and we readied ourselves for the journey accordingly. We knew Morrowind as a place of rivers of lava, active volcanoes the likes of which no other province has seen, and host to some of the most fertile soils that can outshine the farmland in Cyrodiil. As such, we made the most of the wealth Balgruuf bestowed upon us and readied up for the long journey ahead – a sort of return to form from the brief time ago when we were wandering Skyrim together.

Unfortunately though, even this new plan seemed destined not to be. While we were off searching for searching for a solution to the dragon crisis, the rest of Skyrim was left to deal with both the civil war and a growing vampire threat. While vampires were certainly nothing new for us to hear of in our brief stops, what did earn our concern was the increase in frequency the attacks had displayed in the last few weeks. Baldur had every intent of dealing with the vampire threat himself down the road, but the attempt on his life created a new problem that we thought needed our attention first. That is, until when we exited the gates of Whiterun and were attacked by vampires ourselves.

They weren't particularly powerful compared to other vampires that'd been sighted, especially where destruction magic and two talented warriors were concerned, but the fact vampires would even dare approach a city was cause enough for another change in plan. While it wasn't our first choice to send Baldur off to Solstheim alone to deal with his would-be assassins' cult, it was our next logical step. The vampire menace nor the cult in Solstheim could be ignored, and it was for the best that the two of us with incorruptible souls would be the ones to deal with the vampires. After all, it wouldn't do at all for the Dragonborn to be claimed by vampirism in the wake of his triumph, now would it? In our final day together for the time being, Baldur assured us he'd be fine on his own, and while there was truth in his words, I worried all the same.

It was inevitable I suppose, that we'd have to go our separate ways one day, but I didn't think it'd be so soon. That having been said, it's not like he's out of reach. The couriers of Tamriel are nothing if not dedicated when it comes to delivering their orders, and I plan on making use of that to keep in contact with Baldur. If the worst comes to worst and he requires our aid, at least we'll likely still be in Skyrim – close enough for us to make the trip to Solstheim in relatively short order if we hurry.

Regardless, Baldur's likely halfway to the nearest port to Solstheim by now and we still have some ways to go to reach the rumored location of the Dawnguard. Even on horseback, Fort Dawnguard is in the furthest reaches of The Rift, and the forestage won't quite help speed up our journey, no matter what fair weather we've seen thus far. At any rate, I look forward to working with the Dawnguard. From what Glorel and Whiterun's townsfolk could tell me, they're almost a more focused version of the Vigilants of Stendarr. Whereas the Vigilants focus on all Daedra worship, the Dawnguard specialize in hunting down vampires, and I imagine that their recruiters around Skyrim could only have been bolstering their ranks in recent times. It's refreshing in a way, to have an organization already forming the moment a crisis is on the horizon, rather than the world being left to scramble for a solution as it had during the dragon crisis. At any rate, I'm sure they'll appreciate some more helping hands in whatever campaign against the vampires they have planned.

* * *

Dawnguard:

As anticipated, the leader of the Dawnguard – Isran – was more than happy to accept our aid, word of our deeds having spread like wildfire in the wake of Alduin's defeat. While we expected some exchanges between the Dawnguard and the vampires already, given the increase in attacks has been nothing new, we didn't expect to hear that a major battle had already occurred. The Vigilants of Stendarr had been assisting the Dawnguard in tracking groups of vampires' movements and found a considerable number of them heading to Dimhollow Crypt. According to the reports Isran received, the Vigilants saw the vampires uncover ancient ruins in search of something very important to them. In anticipation that the Dawnguard wouldn't arrive in time to assist before the vampires found what they were looking for, they attacked.

While they fought valiantly, by the time they reached the site of the vampire's excavations, their number had dwindled beyond what would allow for anything but a pyrrhic victory at best. The ensuing battle forced the Vigilants to retreat or be wiped out, though they did manage to strike a deep blow unto the vampires. Evidently, they were in Dimhollow looking for both an ancient vampire and her Elder Scroll, but in the chaos they managed to strike her down. Though they couldn't secure the scroll before the vampires got it and forced the Vigilants to retreat, it was at least a minor victory amidst the disaster. Since then the rest of their order has assimilated into the Dawnguard – at least until the vampire menace has been dealt with.

After we were brought up to speed, Isran allowed us to read the reports thoroughly in case there was something that either they missed, or we knew more about than them. Fortunately, he was right. While I didn't know what the vampires could want with an Elder Scroll, I did know that by the description of the ancient vampire they killed that the vampires of Dimhollow could only be looking for a way to complete their prophecy of the Tyranny of the Sun. With the very fate of the sun now at stake, I shared my discoveries with Isran and we came up with a plan.

The Chantry had recorded the Tyranny of the Sun prophecy, detailing how Auri-El's bow was needed alongside the sacrifice of a pure-blooded vampire to corrupt the sun, allowing vampires endless freedom to reign terror upon Man, Mer, and Beastfolk alike. Given that Auri-El's bow is an artifact belonging to none other than the Chantry of Auri-El – and more specifically Vyrthur – we knew where we needed to go next. Though retrieving the very object the vampires seek is risky, it's also the greatest tool we could have at our disposal to deal with the most powerful of their number. It's not like we're strangers to risky gambles on our missions to save the world at least, what with us once trusting both the Blades and a dragon at one point.

While Glorel and I have begun the trip back to the Chantry, Isran has rallied the Dawnguard and told us to meet him nearby the castle they think the vampires are holed up at off the coast of Solitude. With any luck, Vyrthur will have cooled off enough after my disappearance to be cooperative, and we'll be able to end this vampire menace before the damage its caused already spirals out of control. While I don't think he has any ill intent for Glorel seeing as she supposedly simply vanished from the Chantry, I don't know whether Vyrthur would let his prejudice of outsiders jeopardize the Tamriel all because Glorel would be the one wielding the bow. I suppose the only way to find out is by getting there though, and whatever happens, I do know that we aren't leaving the Chantry without the bow. There's too much at stake for us to leave empty-handed.

Part of me is thankful we've decided to investigate the vampires and not Baldur, now that I think about it. While I've no doubt Baldur would be able to deal with the vampire threat, I imagine that finding Auri-El's bow – let alone the Chantry – would be too great a task to ask of him to complete alone before the vampires do. While I know the Knight-Paladins are proficient fighters, I wouldn't put it past the vampires to cut through the Chantry far enough to retrieve Auri-El's bow faster than Baldur could even locate the place. That and I don't quite like the idea of the Chantry having to fight for its life to begin with, especially when I could help keep them safe by taking the bow – and therefore the target on the Chantry's backs – off their hands. Until then, we have the breadth of Skyrim to cross and a divine bow to retrieve.

* * *

**Authors Note:** **Ok, so you might be wondering. Why does the Tyranny of the Sun prophecy still exist if Vyrthur never became a vampire? It's because, given Harkon's ancient age and understanding of blood magic, it's doubtful he'd be clueless about the Snow Elves' artifacts and the potential to corrupt them. Thus, he would likely make a prophecy in the same vein as Vyrthur to inspire his followers to try and help him complete it, and the prophecy would likely be old enough for the Chantry to perhaps have caught whispers of it via travelers' tales or run-ins with fleeing vampires. They latter do tend to look for caves to hide in, all things considered.**

**Also, why'd I kill off Serena? Because, well… I didn't wanna have undead blood on Sindri and Glorel's hands. I know in their eyes she'd just be another vampire to them, and they simple-minded hunters to her, but I still don't like the idea of the two of them killing her, even if it is simply due to a lack of understanding of who Serena is. Call me a wuss, but I did warn of narrative budget cuts, eh? My deepest apologies if I disappointed, in any case.**

**PS: Seeing as I've been rather antsy to cap off this big ol' project of mine, I figured it'd be a pleasant surprise to kick off the final few entries of Sindri's journal with a triple upload today.**


	16. Auri-El's Bow & Castle Volkihar

Auri-El's Bow:

In some twisted way, I was glad when some thunderstorms stopped out progress towards Darkfall Cave, and I was almost even more relieved when a landslide made us take a detour. Under any other circumstances I'd call this chain of events bad luck or an omen, but I couldn't help but thank the setbacks this time. The closer we made it to the Chantry, the larger the pit in my stomach became. I knew Vyrthur wouldn't be openly hostile by any means, but I had no idea how time had changed him, if at all. Given his life spanning millennia I didn't put it past him to not let a few months change his worldview, but at the same time, I held onto hope just as much as my gut clenched onto dread.

When we finally made it to Darkfall Cave's wayshrine, I was unsurprised to see Gelebor and some of the other senior Knight-Paladins alongside him. Gelebor had always been calmer than his brother, but nonetheless kept to his duties to obey the Arch-Curate without too much trouble in all but the most severe controversies. As he escorted us through the wayshrine and back to my home from so long ago, he at least assured me that no harm would come to us, and that our absence had been far from unimpactful on Vyrthur. Shortly after we escaped the Chantry, Vyrthur made a point to keep the Knight-Paladins on the lookout in a short range outside of Darkfall Cave in case we were to return, and in the process the Knight-Paladins – and therefore Vyrthur – caught wind of quite a few rumors of what was occurring outside the valley. Gelebor left the implications of that knowledge for us to contemplate in our own time, telling us that Vyrthur himself would be coming to meet us. Given how my mind was running rampant trying to discern how Vyrthur would react to the rumors of the Snow Elf that had a part to play in Skyrim's fate on more than one occasion, I didn't think much of the fact Vyrthur was coming to  _me_ , and not vice versa.

After a few dozen painful minutes of waiting, the Vyrthur welcomed himself into my old home. While he still carried with him his confidence and holier-than-thou attitude, the very fact he didn't bring me before him in the Inner Sanctum was enough to imply that our meeting was going to be less formal than a meeting with the Arch-Curate typically was. Much to my relief, the rumor and even some praises of the Snow Elf in Skyrim had indeed changed Vyrthur's perspectives on the outside world. While he didn't entirely think that our people would be able to dwell openly in Tamriel again until far into the future, he was open to the possibility that with some  _very_  delicate negotiation, the Nords and Snow Elves might be able to coexist again one day.

What's more, in light of our tales of saving the world – not once, but twice – he was open to our request for Auri-El's bow. He was as aware of the risks of bringing the bow into battle against the very same faction that desired to corrupt it as I was, but he also knew how many innocents might die if he didn't provide us with the means to stop the vampires. I imagine that while he did care about the innocents of Skyrim – being the holy man he is – that his decision was more influenced by the chance the vampires might eventually stumble across the Chantry and cause no end of terror to retrieve Auri-El's bow themselves. That, and both Glorel and I noticed his eyes glance towards the Staff of Magnus when he first entered the room. Though I couldn't imagine what was running through his head then, what I did see was memories of millennia past in his eyes. Of the Atmorans' first landing perhaps, of the Night of Tears, or any other historic event Vyrthur had been all too quickly reminded of in the presence of our people's most powerful staff.

With the bow being stowed away in the Inner Sanctum, Vyrthur only requested that we make the journey on foot – a sort of mock pilgrimage for Glorel – before we would be granted Auri-El's weapon. We of course obliged, and our short journey through the valley began. Until we crossed the Chantry's frozen lakebed and woke the twin dragons of legend, that is.

Naalslaarum and Voslaarum had indeed been asleep for millennia, and even slept through the dragon crisis, but it appeared that their slow start to hear and respond to Alduin's call had finally come to fruition. With no Knight-Paladins nearby, it was up to Vyrthur, Glorel, and myself to deal with the dragons before they could wreak havoc on the Chantry. The ensuing battle was reminiscent of Skuldafn with the twin dragons acting in harmony and all, the only difference being we needed to be sure not to fall into the holes in the ice they created during our exchange. Granted, that didn't stop the entirety of the lake's sheet of ice from collapsing once Glorel and I delivered our ranged killing blows, what with the dragons' dead weight crashing into the ice. Other than some damage to the Chantry's buildings and some nipping cold on Glorel's side, the fight was won without any casualties, which I more than consider a victory considering the dragons had the drop on us.

After making our way into the Inner Sanctum and drying off (all because our people resist the cold doesn't mean frostbite is any less lethal if we were to contract it, after all), Vyrthur led us into his patio overlooking the lake we'd just fought over. From within the wayshrine there he summoned forth Auri-El's bow, thanked us both for our deeds in both the valley and in Skyrim, and granted Glorel the bow – and some Sunhallowed Arrows for good measure.

While we plan on leaving to meet up with Isran and the Dawnguard tomorrow, I can't help but feel more relieved now than I did when we defeated Alduin. Where defeating Alduin assured our survival, it didn't assure prosperity for anyone, but after speaking with Vyrthur I've learned that our actions have managed to influence history yet to be written. A few months ago, Vyrthur wouldn't be caught dead contemplating opening contact with the outside world, and yet now he's planning on doing that very thing. Given the impressions I've served to create, I can almost guarantee that our people will see our homeland again; and, although it'll never be the same place we once knew, it'll still be a land we're free to wander once again. Granted it's going to be some time before you see Snow Elves in any considerable number outside the Chantry but knowing that it's going to happen is electrifying to me. Now all that's left is stopping the vampires so that Skyrim's safe enough to live in to begin with.

* * *

Castle Volkihar:

It's occasions like the attack on Castle Volkihar I'm thankful for magic almost as much as I am for leaving the Chantry with Glorel. If not for the divines granting us our incorruptible souls we would've very likely become one of those damned vampires, and if not for magic we wouldn't have even be able to knock down the gates into their lair. Well, when I say "we" I mean myself, given that no other members of the Dawnguard appreciate magic beyond it mending their wounds, let alone appreciate it enough to take the time to study Destruction. My lamentation of the Dawnguard aside, when I finally did break down the gates they more than made up for their lack of arcane knowledge in their effectiveness against the vampires.

While by no means a match for the Companions in one-on-one combat, they still impressed in how every element of their armor, weapon, and even holy scrolls' enchantments made short work of the vampires. Even the strongest among them were either dueling their adversaries to a standstill – thus buying me or Glorel an easy target – or eventually faltering to the Dawnguard's hail of crossbow bolts.

Once we cleared out the main chamber where they feasted on their "cattle," the details of which I'd sooner forget, all that was left was splitting up to pick off the stragglers. While Isran and the Dawnguard didn't meet much difficulty with their foes, Glorel and I were unlucky enough to find the vampires' leader – a condescending despot by the name of Harkon - in his blood-filled shrine to Molag Bal. If the vampires we encountered thus far were lions among sheep, then Harkon I can only describe as a dragon among cattle.

His speed was already enough to dodge most of Glorel's arrows when he wasn't channeling life into his Daedric summons, though his ability to burst into a cloud of bats only augmented that advantage. His strength and proficiency in blood magic wasn't lacking either, being more than a match for Glorel's martial skill and my own normal spells. Around what I recall was the seventh summoning of his damned Daedric minions, Glorel came up with our winning strategy. When she punched a hole in Harkon's ward with Auri-El's bow, I used my staff to drain Harkon just enough to slow him down for the rest of the fight and reintroduce his ancient body to fatigue. The strategy worked wonders, and within minutes Glorel's consistency with both blade and bow made ready use of Harkon's newfound fatigue. While I kept the Daedra busy, she delivered the killing blow to both Harkon and the threat his clan posed over Skyrim.

It's been around two weeks since then, and I believe Skyrim has returned to a state as close to normalcy as it's going to get before the civil war is resolved, though Glorel and I still resolve not to get involved in the matter just as much as Balgruuf does. The Vigilants of Stendarr are beginning to build their new hall in Whiterun, and the Dawnguard are being hailed as heroes, rather than paranoid madmen that they were perceived as not too long ago. Also, I've sent Urag the scroll Harkon had in his possession for safe keeping, though I imagine Urag will likely try and compensate me for delivering another such artifact to his library, despite my insistence that he shouldn't do so. Vyrthur has also made good on his plan to contact Tamriel again, and I hear he'll be arranging a meeting with both General Tullius and Ulfric as his first formal action as representative of the Snow Elves. Rumor on the wind is that it's going to be a summit to discuss the future treatment of our people in Skyrim, with a peace treaty regarding the civil war being a secondary objective if all proceeds well. If nothing else, it's a good first impression for the Snow Elves – that even after the Nords' actions towards us in the past, our first meeting is one that's trying to broker peace in their bloody civil war rather than the meeting simply focusing on ourselves.

Despite all the good news and nothing tying us down any longer, Glorel and I have elected to laze about Whiterun rather than resume our travels until Baldur returns, or at least until we receive word of him. If nothing else, it gives us a chance to relax and plan our travels while performing the odd job. Divines know the Temple of Kynareth has no shortage of wounded in need of healing these days and the Companions have many hopefuls in need of advice, so with any luck the days will pass quickly, and word of Baldur's fate will reach us soon.

* * *

**Authors Note:** **So yeah… when I said narrative budget cuts, I meant it lol. Apologies about how short the arc was made, but I couldn't help but feel that I couldn't omit it because of how the entire McGuffin of its plot is connected to Sindri's heritage, and I couldn't draw it out as long as in-game because obviously Sindri knows what Auri-El's bow is! He's a Snow Elf for crying out loud! *sigh* With any luck you can find it in you to understand the difficulties of tweaking this questline, but if not, consider this arc something of a not-strictly-necessary read before the end of Glorel and Sindri's canon adventures.**


	17. A New Dawn

A New Dawn:

Luckily for us, the divines seem to have smiled upon us with a plenty of good fortune this past week.

As a start, word traveled about the result of Vyrthur's conference with Skyrim's leaders nearly as quickly as it being organized in the first place. Although an end to the civil war wasn't by any means found in the meeting, what was found more than made up for it in my eyes. Both General Tullius and Ulfric agreed that so long as the Snow Elves involve themselves peacefully in Skyrim's affairs and come to the aid of its people in times of crisis, we'll be allowed to roam free once again. Granted, I don't imagine Snow Elves holding many positions such as Housecarl or Court Wizard for some time to come, but at least we're no longer locked away in the Chantry. As an added gesture of good faith, Vyrthur's even making the pilgrimage up to High Hrothgar as I write this. Given the respect those who make the pilgrimage receive, it's no wonder Vyrthur make the journey for our people, but I think it also speaks volumes as to how much Vyrthur has changed in our absence. It's almost surreal, for my greatest mentor and philosophical opponent to come around like that – not that I have any qualms about it, by any means. Vyrthur's pilgrimage will mark both his respect for the Nords' customs as well as his willingness to endure whatever trials Skyrim sends his way on the ascent, much like the Nords have had to endure the province's troubles for millennia. It's a parallel I think will fly above the heads of all but the educated among the Nords, but it's a gesture of good faith and equality that I know will go a long way in the years to come.

Not even before noon the same day we were graced by that news, one of Solstheim's own couriers made it to Whiterun with a letter from Baldur himself. He's just made port back into Windhelm, having dealt with Miraak with only minor injuries at best. His tale told of Dwemer ruins, encounters with Hermaeus Mora in Apocrypha, and mind-bending stones and shouts alike, with him having to deal with an eccentric mage that reminded him all too much of, "Sindri if he was a Dunmer who lived too many hundreds of years and gotten far too much of an easy-going attitude when it came to the Daedra." Part of me feels bad for having Baldur deal with Miraak on his own, but the more I read of his adventure the more I couldn't help but feel he was best suited for the job. I may excel at remembering and utilizing the lore of the past, but I'm far from the best suited of our trio to deal with Daedric Princes and Dwemer ruins. Regardless, with Baldur safely back in the snowy province he calls home, that leaves Glorel and I with nothing to tie us down any longer.

Both the Temple of Kynareth and The Companions have banded together to prepare a less-than-formal farewell party for us two, in thanks for our respective contributions to their organizations during our brief stay in the city. While I'm sure both of their groups would have no end of use for us should we choose to return one day, there's a whole continent I've yet to behold with my own eyes, and dozens of places Glorel has entranced me with tales of traveling to. As such we're returning to form, with our only objective being to truly absorb all Tamriel has to offer. I admit, I'm looking forward to it all, even if I'll somewhat miss Skyrim's rugged charms in its inns, and the quick correspondence I've become accustom to with the College of Winterhold. Valenwood's untouched forests, Hammerfell's oases, Morrowind's Red Mountain, the list goes on for what I've yet to see, yet every site I look forward to with equal enthusiasm.

That enthusiasm even has grown to overshadow whatever concerns I might've once had about the outcome of the civil war, or of the Aldmeri Dominion's posturing for war with the Empire. For now, I've chosen to forget all that, and focus on the long and culturally enlightening road ahead. Even if we one day run out of sites to see, there's always Akavir to investigate. According to a copy of records Urag sent me, the Nerevarine was last rumored to have left Tamriel wholesale shortly after his dealings with the Tribunal. Given the Nerevarine is immortal, I've no shortage of questions already taking shape for him, being the walking witness of ancient history he is and all, but I get ahead of myself. As Glorel's shield-brother Farkas once said; "Eyes on the prey, not the horizon." Never have I thought I'd take a werewolf's words at face value before but given how I never expected to be involved in world-scale events prior to just a few months ago, I think that taking Farkas' words to heart isn't the most absurd thing I've done.

I'm confident that the rigors of recent times – at least for Glorel and I – are coming to an end, and that for the foreseeable future we'll have no shortage of wonders to explore. It almost makes me want to ditch the farewell party before it starts, but I think it'd be a shame to see some fine spirits go to waste before we go. That, and it'd help if Glorel and I even decide a proper first destination rather than listing off  _everywhere_ we want to go, but one thing at a time. For now, there's drinks, food, and a continent of unexplored mysteries awaiting us.

* * *

**Authors Note:** **And so it ends! This is as far as I had a solid plan for SoSL, but I may pick it up from time to time as inspiration (and spare time) hits me. Granted, my own imagined arcs may be woefully garbage in comparison to the proper structure the original game offered my story, but I do think they may be better than (though maybe as short as) my version of the Dawnguard questline I cooked up. Also, even if I don't continue Sindri and Glorel's story beyond Skyrim, there's always ES6 to look forward to… ya know, since Elves live super long and all, it ain't outta the question our duo would still be alive and kicking. As for Baldur? Well, knowing Bethesda he's gonna have his own 'unique' fate that's scribbled all too nonchalant in the back of an in-game book, so for now the Breton's fate shall remain as enigmatic as it is in the game itself.**

**PS: Yep. Another double upload. What can I say? I was hype!**


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